
ELIZABETH • W • CHAMPNEY 



By ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY 



ROMANCE OF THE FEUDAL CHATEAUX. 

ROMANCE OF THE RENAISSANCE CHA= 
TEAUX. 

ROMANCE OF THE BOURBON CHATEAUX. 

ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH ABBEYS, 



The Child Saint Louis Giving Alms at the 
Portal of the Abbey of Saint Denis. 

From the painting by V. Lesur. 
(By permission of Neurdein.) 



NEW ': 



ROMANCE OF 
THE FRENCH ABBEYS 



BY 

ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY 

AUTHOR OF " ROMANCE OF THE FEUDAL CHATEAUX," ETC. 



ILLUSTRATED 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Zbc Ikniciictbockct pvese 

1905 



PREFACE 

SCATTERED throughout the length and 
breadth of France, almost forgotten in 
their out-of-the-way nooks, the abbeys, 
though forsaken and ruinous, still afford fas- 
cinating shrines of pilgrimage to the thought- 
ful tourist. 

The architect will find in them the entire 
development of the Romanesque and Gothic 
styles and the first dawn of the Renaissance. 
He will feel a brother's pride in the achieve- 
ments of the architect monks of Cluny, who 
travelled even into other nations building the 
abbeys of their order, as well as in the en- 
gineering exploits of that other brotherhood 
who wore the red hammer embroidered upon 
their sleeves, the Freres Pontifes, or bridge- 
builders, who spanned great rivers with for- 
tified bridges which endure to this day, that 
pilgrims might journey to the Holy Land, and 
v/hile constructing the Pont Saint Esprit, 
which crosses the Rhone, believed that the 
divine Son of the Carpenter laboured with 
them. He will trace the history of stained 



VI 



Preface 



glass in the shattered windows of the abbeys, 
and that of goldsmithry and enamelhng in 
the chahces and rehquaries preserved in the 
museums as precious examples of the riches 
which once filled their "tresors.'" He will 
admire in their grilles the noble craft of the 
iron-worker, in their choir stalls that of the 
wood-carver, and in their tombs the art of 
the sculptor. The spoils of the scriptoria in 
the National Library of Paris alone will 
awaken wonder at the immense patience and 
skill of the illuminators; and though France 
can boast of no painter-monks to rank with 
Fra Angelico and Fra Lippo Lippi, her debt to 
her monasteries in the department of letters 
is deeper than that of Italy. They were the 
first universities, their monks the first his- 
torians, and they furnished a refuge not alone 
for saddened and penitent hearts, but a career 
for refined and scholarly minds. 

Of such absorbing interest is the art of the 
abbeys that the connoisseur may be par- 
doned indifference to their creators, should 
he say of them with Browning : 

" They might chirp and chaffer, come and go, 
For pleasure or profit the men alive, 
My business was hardly with them I trow, 
But with empty cells of the human hive; 



Preface vii 

" With the chapter-room, the cloister porch, 
The church's apsis, aisle or nave, 
Its crypt one fingers along with a torch, 
Its face set full for the sun to shave." 

The empty hives are themselves fast pass- 
ing fromi the scene. The massive walls of 
masonry, which neither the disintegrating 
forces of nature nor the fierce hatred of re- 
ligious wars has been able utterly to demolish, 
are being turned to secular uses. The sup- 
pression of the religious orders, decreed at 
the time of the French Revolution, has at 
last been very thoroughly effected. Distil- 
leries, factories, barracks, prisons have been 
established in some of the noble buildings; 
some have been entirely razed, often the 
chapel only subsists as the present parish 
church; others serve as quarries for the 
neighbourhood, and only a few are protected 
by the government as historical monuments 
or are lovingly cherished by private owners. 

Certain itineraries found especially delight- 
ful by the author in different vagrant summers, 
in ProA^ence, Savoy, Burgundy, Isle de France, 
and Normandy, are outlined in the last chap- 
ter of this volume ; but the present age is one 
of change, and he who would see even the 
ruins of the abbeys must act quickly. 



VIU 



Preface 



The student of history, the lover of the 
great drama of human hfe, will find in them 
an interest different from that of the artist, 
an irresistible desire to reconstruct in im- 
agination the state of society, the mood of 
mind, and form of faith which not only reared 
them, but made them in their time a bene- 
ficent influence. He will tell us how it hap- 
pened that at the close of the "Dark Ages," 
the year looo a.d., dawned a true millen- 
nium, and with the incredible spread of 
monasticism and the building of many hund- 
red abbeys ' a tidal wave, not alone of re- 
ligious revival, but of civilisation, swept over 
France. He will explain how, in an age 
brutal and unscrupulous beyond our concep- 
tion, persecutors and tyrants stood suddenly 
abashed before the denunciation of the Church, 

^ The Benedictines alone at the time of their greatest 
prosperity boasted thirty-seven thousand monasteries, of 
which a great part were in France. 

The Monasticon GalUcarum, a book written in 1645 by 
Dom Michel Germain, a Benedictine of the Congregation of 
Saint Maur, gives plates of one hundred and sixty-eight great 
French abbeys of his order and time. 

We sketch the marvellous history of the Abbey of Cluny, 
with its hundreds of dependent, abbeys, and of its rival 
Citaux. In less than twenty- five years after the founding 
of the latter abbey it sent out sixty thousand Cistercian 
monks, and in 1790 three thousand six hundred monasteries 
acknowledged her rule. 



Preface 



IX 



and kings like Robert II., in fear of her judg- 
ments, gave up their best beloved at her 
mandate, while Jezebels such as Queen Ber- 
trade retired to lives of humiliation in 
convents. 

We Protestants may at first say, patronis- 
ingly: 

There 's something in that ancient superstition, 
Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves; 

but as we study the development of the sys- 
tem we must acknowledge that in its begin- 
ning at least it was divine. 

It is not within the scope of the present 
volume to tell how the good fruit ripened and 
rotted, how Pope Leo X. placed in the hands 
of Francis I. the power of nominating his 
favourites as commendatory abbots, and how 
the evil grew so that in 1788 there were fifteen 
thousand ecclesiastical sinecures under royal 
appointment, and abbots were sovereign 
princes and sybarites took the places of saints 
until, as Dante foretold, the flood came and 
destroyed them all.^ The author is neither 

» *' The walls for abbeys reared are turned to dens. 
Jordan was turned back 
A.nd a less wonder. Thus the refluent sea 
May at God's pleasure work amendment here." 

Paradiso, Canto XXXII. 



X Preface 

archgeologist nor sociologist, but a trovere of 
romance. She has brought back from her 
pilgrimages only a few incidents which have 
moved her in the history of her best -loved 
abbeys: legends of the Saints Bernard and 
Francis from Clairvaux and the Abbey of 
Montmajour; a tale of chivalrous adventure 
from a Commandery of the Knights Hos- 
pitallers; the story of the ambition of one of 
the artisan monks of Cluny; an echo of the 
horror of the Inquisition which still lingers 
about the dungeon w^alls of Carcassonne, and 
the portal of Saint Ouen; the tradition of 
the flowering of a woman's love in the Gothic 
arches of the abbey church of Brou ; a fantasy 
from Saint Denis of the childhood of Saint 
Louis; a burlesque from the playwrights of 
the miracle spectacles from Fecamp; chron- 
icles of passions which wrapped like flames 
the abbey fortresses of Vezelay and Mont 
Saint Michel during the strife of Huguenot 
and Leaguer; and from the lovely ruin of 
Saint Wandrille a story of the revival of faith 
in the Jesuit missions at the time when France 
was most faithless. 

If she is asked what romance can be found 
in communities which strove to eliminate the 
eternal feminine, she can only cite Hallam, 



Preface xi 

who finds that love plays but a subordinate 
role in mediaeval romances, which, he asserts, 
repose equally on three columns — chivalry, 
gallantry, and religion. 

And are not such ambitions as the love of 
achievement and of fame in scholarship and 
in art, the love of power, and the love of 
struggle for the mere joy of the fight — such 
enthusiasms as devotion to one's abbey and 
one's order, or purely to humanity — emotions 
as worthy of the soul of man, and as interest- 
ing to the observer in their development as 
the love of woman ? 

Moreover, that love was not always want- 
ing. Often it existed so purified from pas- 
sion that it became a mystical sentiment, 
supernatural and transcendent. Sometimes 
alas! (though not so frequently as cavillers 
would have us believe) human nature was 
too frail for such sublime renunciation, and 
tragedies like that of Abelard and Heloise, as 
well as the pathetic self-sacrifice of nobler 
souls, point the moral of these tales — that the 
mistake of monasticism was celibacy. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Preface ...... in 

CHAPTER 

I. — -The Golden Mystery . . . . i 
(An Episode in the History of the Abbey 
of Vezelay) 

II. — The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 35 
(A Story of One of the Artisan-Monks of 
Cluny) 

III,- — ^The Wolf of Saint Francis - . 50 

(From the Chronicles of the Abbey of 
Montmajour) 

IV. — The Vision of Saint Bernard . .75 
(A Legend of Clairvaux) 

V. — The Tapestries of Bourganeuf . . 98 
(How They Came to the Commanders of 
the Knights HospitaUers) 

VI. — Intra Muros . . . . ,120 

(Being the Adventures of a Red Box) 

VII. — Ver Vert . . . . . .154 

(A More Complete Account of Gresset's 
Parrot, His Naughty Conversation, 
and How in the End Good was 
Wrought Thereby) 

VIII. — The Abbey Church of Brou . -179 



xiv Contents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

IX. — The Flageolet of Saint Bruno . i88 

(A Legend of La Grande Chartreuse) 

X. FlEUR d'EpINE ..... 2IO 

(An Incident in the Boyhood of Saint 
Louis) 

XI. — The Green Dragon of Fecamp . , 226 

XII. — Mademoiselle de Folleville . . 236 
(Showing How Montgomery Came to 
Mont Saint Michel) 

XIII. — A Fugitive Abbot .... 281 
(A Romance of the Abbey of Saint 
Wandrille) 

XIV. — The Sin of Abbot Nicolas . . .318 

XV. — Abbey Pilgrimages . . . . 337 

Appendix: Notes, and Authorities 

Consulted 393 



Page 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PHOTOGRAVURES 

The Child Saint Louis Giving Alms at 
the Portal of the Abbey of Saint 
Denis Frontispiece 

{For text see page 222) 

From the painting by V . Lesur 

{By permission of Neiirdein) 



The Vision of Saint Bernard . . 90 

From, the painting by Filippino Lippi 
{By perinission of V. Jacqtiier) 

The Gift of Jewels . . . .116 

From the tapestry in the Cluny Museum, 
{By permission of Paul Robert) 

Bernard Delicieux Liberating the Pris- 
oners ...... 144 

From, the painting by Jean Paul Laurens 
{By perinission of Neurdein) 

Tomb of Philibert le Beau, in the Church 

of Brou 182 



xvi Illustrations 



Page 



Saint Bruno Receiving the Design for the 

Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse 200 

From the painting by E. Le Sueur in the Louvre 
{By permission of Dornach, Paris) 

The Return of the Missionary . . ji2 

From the painting by Vibert 

Joan of Arc ..... J26 

Frotn a painting by E. W. Joy 
{By pertnission of Neurdein) 

The Excommunication of Robert the Pious J40 

From a painting by Jean Paul Laurens 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

OTHER THAN PHOTOGRAVURE 

Page 

General View of Vezelay . . . 6 

Fortified Gate, Vezelay . ' . . 6 

Wing of Cluny Palace at Paris . . 42 

{By permission of Levy et Fils) 

Entrance of Cluny Palace at Paris . . 42' 

{By permission of Levy et Fils) 

Grille of Abbey Church of Saint Ouen, at 

Rouen ...... 44 

St. Francis Preaching to the Wolves . 68- 

From, the painting by Luc Olivier Merson 

The Wolf of St. Francis ... 70 

From a painting by Luc Olivier Merson 

Tomb of Philippe Pot . . . g8 

Formerly at the Abbey of Citeaux, now in the Louvre 



xviii Illustrations 

Pierre D'Aubusson . . . .no 

The Tower of Zizim . , . .no 

' ' The Tones of the Organ Charmed the 

Beasties of the Wood.''' . .114 

(By permission of Paul Robert) 

Walls of Carcassonne . . . .120 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Ver Vert at the Convent of the Visitan- 

dines ...... 158 

From an old print, permission of Longmans, 
Green & Co. 

Mistletoe Border . . . in color i'/4 

From the "Livre d'Heures" of Anne de Bre- 
tagne in the Bibliotheque National at Paris. The 
illuminations were executed by Jean Bourdichon 
in the early part of the sixteenth century. 

Rood Screen in the Church of Brou . 180 

Margaret of Austria . . . . 186 

Statues on her tomb in the Church of Brou 

Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse . ig6 

(By permission of Neurdein) 

The Needle 202 

{By permission of Neurdein) 



Illustrations xix 

Page 

Approach to the Monastery of La Grande 

Chartreuse . . . . .202 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

The Building of the Church . . 212 

From an old print 

The Vase of Suger . . . .212 

From " L' Art Gothiqtie" by Louis Gonse 

Twelfth Century Glass. Abbey of St. 

Denis . ... in color 216 

From a water-colour of the window 
by John Sanford Humphreys 

Old Abbey Church of Fecamp . . 228 

Statue of the Monk Vincelli, Inventor of 

the Benedictine Elixir . . . 2j6 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Chdteau of Lion-sur-Mer . . . 260 

Entrance to the Abbey of Mont Saint 

Michel ...... 2J0 

The Sands from the Roof of the Abbey of 

Mont Saint Michel .... 280 

Monuinental Gateway in the Style of the 

1 8th Century, Louis XV. . . 282 

{By permission of Neurdein) 



XX Illustrations 



Page 



Gateivay, ijth Century, Abbey of Saint 

Wandrille ..... 282/ 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Gate of the Virgin, Saint Wandrille . 2go 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Ruins of Church of the Abbey of Saint 

Wandrille . . . . . 2go 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Cloister of Saint Wandrille . . . jio 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Cloister, VAbbaye de la Vigne . . jio 

Ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges . '. ji8 

{By permission of Levy et Fils) 

Tomb at the Abbey of Clermont . -3^8 
Abbey Church of Saint Ouen, Rouen . jj4 

{By permission of Levy et Fils) 

UAbbaye aux Dames, Caen . . . jj4 

Ruins of the Abbey of Valmont, near 

Fecamp . . . . . 336 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Ruins of Abbey of Valmont — Interior . 344 



Illustrations xxi 

Page 

Ruins of the Abbey of La Victoire . . J48 

{By permission of Neurdein) 

Donjon of the Chateau of Montbazon . J48 

(By permission of Neurdein) 

UAbbe de Ranee 356 

Romance of the Comte de Comminges . jj6 

From an engraving by Eisen 

Palace of the Pope Gelase, at the Abbey of 

Cluny . . . . '. . 366 

Cloister of the Abbey of Fontfroide . j/o 

{By permission of Paul Robert) 

Cloister of the Abbey of Moissac . . 3^0 
Chapter House of the Abbey of Vezelay . 384 

{By perm,ission of Neurdein) 

Church of La Madeleine, Abbey of Vezelay 386 

From "Villes du Departem-ent de I'Yonne" by 
Victor Petit 

Church of the Abbey of La Chaise Dieu . 386 

{By permission of Neurdein) 




ROMANCE OF 
THE FRENCH ABBEYS 



CHAPTER I 

THE GOLDEN MYSTERY 

'"T^HAT is what all the wise ones called it, 
* Madame. They were as much puzzled 
as the simplest when the old Abbot Heri- 
bert's tomb was opened and all that golden 
glory flashed before them. 

"They had gathered from far and near, 
for the great architect Monsieur VioUet-le-Duc 
had come from Paris to make such restora- 
tions as he thought fit in this ancient Abbey 
of Vezelay, and it was surmised that interest- 
ing discoveries might be made. 

"So, when my father, who was master- 



2 French Abbeys 

mason, with his force of assistants, hfted the 
lid of the sarcophagus in that canopied 
niche, — a heavy hd, as Madame sees, for the 
effigy of Abbot Heribert was carved upon it, 
— all the learned ones who stood around 
craned their necks like the gargoyles over the 
church door. 

"They had read the record of the saintly 
life of this good man who lived and died away 
back in the tenth century, for it is engraved 
in Latin on the brazen plate. His statue, 
too, has a certain dignity even in its mutila- 
tion, robed in full canonicals with its thin 
hands piously folded over its quiet breast. 
To have found those carven vestments dupli- 
cated in costly stuffs would have surprised 
no one, but a cry of astonishment echoed 
through the church when it was perceived 
that the gorgeous robe of cloth of gold now 
revealed was a woman's, that the form it 
shrouded was a woman's, and a little woman's 
at that. The tiny pinched face was framed 
in black hair, which swept from under a red 
velvet cap to the very tips of her dainty 
shoes. 

"But what changed the first dazzled ex- 
clamation of admiration of the queenly gem- 
broidered robe to one of horror was the sight 



The Golden Mystery 3 

of a ghastly, gaping wound in the little lady's 
forehead, the frontal bone crushed to splin- 
ters by some murderous blow, and the beauti- 
ful hair torn and clotted. 

"When the corpse had remained for a 
time exposed to the air it crumbled to dust, 
but the gold threads in the woof of its dress 
were pure metal and did not vanish with the 
rest. The government claimed the robe and 
it was carried away to some museum. 

"The learned ones wrangled long over the 
'Golden Mystery,' as it was popularly named, 
and some said it was the robe in which Queen 
Eleanor listened here at Vezelay to the 
preaching of the Second Crusade by Saint 
Bernard, and that she had sent it to the 
Abbey as a souvenir of her visit. But none 
could solve the riddle of why it shrouded the 
little lady with the fractured skull, nor why 
she should have been laid to rest in the 
Abbot's tomb. 

"Golden and grim it remained a mystery 
to those learned ones, but its solution has 
been granted to me, Madame, simple peasant 
though I am, for I have pondered and brooded 
over it all my life, and have pieced together 
every scrap of history that has fallen in my 
way, and all the legends of the old people, 



4 French Abbeys 

until suddenly one night I saw it all crystal 
clear, and knew that only in this way could 
it have happened. It was when my father 
told me that among the bits of bones, which 
the learned ones had overlooked in the dust 
of the tomb, he had found a finger- joint and 
on it a marriage ring with the initials ' O. de C. 
to E. de H.' I have the ring and the bit of 
blackened bone still, Madame, to witness if 
Hie." 

Our guide, Martin Quatrevaux, tugged at a 
stout string which encircled his neck and drew 
from his bosom a soiled chamois-skin bag, 
and from the bag the relic of which he spoke. 
If a forgery it had been cunningly prepared, 
and the man's face was too honest for the 
most sceptical to harbour suspicion. Beside 
the initials there was the date 1569, and 
everything was clear. 

"Odet de Coligny to Elizabeth de Haute- 
ville!" we exclaimed, and Quatrevaux nodded 
gravely. 

"Madame is not like certain other tourists 
who visit Vezelay," he said, "Madame is not 
so ignorant as one might suppose, while those 
others — croyez vous, I have shown the ring 
to certain imbeciles who not only could not 
guess for what names the initials stood, but 



The Golden Mystery 5 

had never even heard of the great Cohgnys. 
Sheep — calves! Is it possible that human 
beings can be so idiotic ? ' ' 

"We know very little more, Quatrevaux," 
we replied, ' ' beyond the fact that the brother 
of the great Gaspard de Coligny was, before 
his excommunication, Abbot of this mag- 
nificent Abbey." 

"And afterward, Madame. It was not 
until the Mother Church cast him out that 
Odet de Coligny troubled himself greatly 
about Vezelay. Cardinal at sixteen. Arch- 
bishop of I know not how m.any wealthy sees, 
and flattered at Court, he had little use for 
this lonely fortress. But when he took his 
stand with the Huguenots and fought by the 
side of his great brother the Admiral at the 
battle of St. Denis, and was excommunicated 
and banished, tracked and betrayed, and in 
danger of his life — then the monks of Vezelay 
(who had already been converted to Pro- 
testantism by one of their own number, Theo- 
dore de Beze) acclaimed their heretic Abbot, 
and this Abbey became his sure castle of 
defence. 

* ' It was not just on account of his religion, 
I'm thinking, but because along with that 
he had shown himself a worthy successor of 



6 French Abbeys 

the old fighting Abbots of Vezelay, for that 
is the tradition — the Abbey is a citadel, the 
strongest in this part of Burgundy, and its 
lords have ever been more expert with the 
mace than with preaching. Come out on the 
terrace, Madame, and look at the walls and 
tell me if Vezelay is not a place to tempt men 
to be obstinate and to have the courage of 
their opinions." 

Such it was and still is, for the ruins of this 
citadel Abbey of Vezelay rise on an isolated 
spur of one of the mountain ranges of the 
Morvan, lonely and invincible even in their 
decay, a fortress that a handful of men might 
still hold against an army. 

Invincible the Abbey has always remained 
through all the storms of war which have 
swept through Burgundy. Its fighting Ab- 
bots were distinguished even before the Eng- 
lish invasion, when Hughes de Maison Comte 
was made prisoner with his men-at-arms at 
the battle of Poitiers. 

It was during this Abbot's imprisonment 
in England that Vezelay fortified itself still 
more strongly, that the . massive encircling 
walls and huge sentinel towers sprang up 
which enabled its monks to laugh defiance 
when English Edward III. cavalcaded by 




GENERAL VIEW OF VEZELAY. 




FORTIFIED GATE, VEZELAY. 



The Golden Mystery 7 

their very gates, and which guarded the 
Abbey inviolate through every subsequent 
attack. 

Knowing as much as this it was pleasant 
to find an enthusiast in the guide who showed 
us Vezelay. A Protestant, like many of the 
descendants of the refugees who sought asy- 
lum here during the sixteenth century from 
the massacres in Lorraine, he had preserved 
a certain isolation from his Catholic neigh- 
bours, and united to great simplicity a dignity 
of speech and m^ore of intelligence than is usu- 
ally to be met with in the French peasant. 
He cherished a positive worship for the mem- 
ory of Odet de Coligny, and his spirited wife, 
Elizabeth de Haute ville, and he firmly be- 
lieved the story which he told us of the here- 
tic Abbot and the noble woman whose love 
during the last decade of his adventurous 
life was his guiding star, and, in despite of 
the doom which dogged his steps and finally 
overtook him, was also his exceeding great 
reward. 

"It all began in this way, Madame. Odet 
de Coligny was pacing this terrace one fair 
evening in June very much as we are doing 
now — ^looking out on the level champaign 
which stretched away all green with growing 



8 French Abbeys 

crops and pasture until it met the darker 
forest-covered hills. The scent of the Annun- 
ciation lilies in the Abbey garden was borne 
to him on the soft air, and the nightingales 
were singing in the acacias. But his heart 
was burdened with care, not for himself alone, 
but' for his hot-headed monks, an obstinate 
flock, determined to wander far from the fold 
of the Church with which he was then hoping 
for reconciliation. 

' ' Slowly the sunset faded and a white mist 
rolled over the plain like the tide of doubt 
and perplexity which was overwhelming him. 
He lifted his heart to God, beseeching a sign 
that he was not forsaken, and suddenly, just 
above the line of the hill yonder to the north- 
east, a star glittered, blue as a great sapphire. 
Other familiar stars wheeled into sight and 
moved through the heavens, but this strange 
new one neither rose nor disappeared, but 
hung low on the horizon, piercing the dark 
with its steady radiance. 

"He gazed at it long and wonderingly, and 
retired to dream that an angel had lighted it 
in answer to his prayer. . He awoke in the 
early morning with this conviction, and open- 
ing his casement saw the star still shining, 
though dawn had brightened the sky above 



The Golden Mystery 9 

it and other stars were dim, and not till the 
sun shot up in all its glory did its light entirely 
go out. 

"Now, if the Abbot had known as much as 
Madame probably does about astronomy, he 
would have recognised that this was no heav- 
enly body, but even so it might have seemed 
to him the more miraculous, for through the 
perplexing days that followed, he was up- 
borne by the thought that the star was a 
pledge of sustaining grace. Night after night 
he sought and found it. Its pure calm beam 
entered his very soul and filled him with 
celestial peace, helping him to bear his heavy 
weight of responsibility and to move with 
serene dignity in the midst of this great 
crisis of his life. 

"The Abbot was returning late one night 
from a conference with Conde at his brother 
d'Andelot's Chateau of Tanlay. He was 
mounted on his white mule Humilite, while 
his valet Gaucelim jogged behind him, and it 
was an unspeakable consolation as he neared 
Vezelay to see that his star was shining 
calmly above the opposite range of hills. 

"'Ave Maria Stella Maris,' he chanted, and 
Gaucelim followed questioningly the direc- 
tion of his master's gaze. 



lo French Abbeys 

'"Do you not see it, Gaucelim?' the Abbot 
asked, 'my star — lighted by my good angel 
for my benediction ? ' 

'"That is no star, my master,' Gaucelim 
replied, 'but a feu follet, a will-o'-the-wisp 
sent by the evil one to mislead travellers. I 
saw it as I was coming back to Vezelay from 
visiting my sweetheart at Chastellux. It is 
not in the sky as it appears from this side of 
the hill, but is a little dancing fire that flutters 
over the old burial-ground on the Col de Mont 
Joie. I saw it move from the gate to the 
little mound in the centre, where stands the 
old disused lanterne des morts. There it 
paused, and, as I was curious as to what this 
might signify, I entered the cemetery and 
found a tiny taper burning in the glass globe 
which stands on the stone pillar. But there 
was no one in the lonely graveyard ; the sexton 
lives in the valley below and never visits it 
except to dig a grave. It came over me that 
some ghoul or ghost had lighted it to work an 
evil spell on Christians, and I ran up to it 
and beat out the flame with my hat. When 
I was half-way down the hill I looked back 
and I saw that it was lighted again, though 
I had left no living soul in the burying -ground 
and no one had passed me on the road.' 



The Golden Mystery ii 

"Odet de Coligny was not so superstitious 
as to believe his valet's theory that the lamp 
in the old lanterne des morts had been lighted 
by ghosts; the thing must have some natural 
explanation. Accordingly, late the following 
afternoon he mounted Humility and rode 
away alone in the direction of the graveyard 
on the hill. He found, as Madame will to-day 
if she takes the trouble to visit the spot, a row 
of tombs backed against the wall on every 
side, and the space so fenced in filled with 
crosses and slabs adorned with wreaths of 
bead-work, which tinkled elfishly in the even- 
ing breeze. In the very centre of the square, 
with four paths leading up to it, stood the 
lanterne des morts, a pinnacled pillar with a 
tiny phare (lighthouse) protected by glass, 
where in other times a lighted lamp was hung 
by pious hands. But no one had been 
buried here for years, the cemetery was re- 
mote and the hill steep, and the custom had 
long fallen into neglect. The shadows deep- 
ened and the Abbot was about to turn from 
the cemetery when suddenly a gleam of light 
twinkled in one of the tombs. He had only 
time to step behind a yew tree when the 
grille grated harshly on its rusted hinges, 
and a figure clothed in white issued from the 



12 French Abbeys 

sepulchre, holding in one hand a taper float- 
ing in a blue glass. The spectre, or maiden, 
walked rapidly to the lanterne des marts, 
placed the little light in its niche, and knelt 
for a moment at the base in prayer. The 
Abbot stepped impulsively from the shelter 
of the yew tree with a ' Peace be with you, my 
daughter.' 

"In spite of the words intended to be re- 
assuring, the startled girl fled with a faint cry 
to the tomb from which she had appeared, 
and closed the iron gate behind her. Through 
its bars the Abbot could see that the tomb 
had another door at its back, opening through 
the wall of the cemetery into the park of a 
country residence. The young woman had 
neglected, in her haste, to close this door and 
he could see her fleeing across the greensward 
toward a small chateau, that of Mont Joie, 
belonging to the old Comte de Haute ville. 

' ' The Abbot smiled. The . lady was evi- 
dently a member of the Count's household, 
and was in the habit of entering the cemetery 
by the family tomb to tend this lantern for 
the lonely dead, because she herself dreaded 
the dark. It was a strange result of his dis- 
covery that his supposed star was only a lamp 
lighted by human hands, that its beam still 



The Golden Mystery 13 

continued to exercise the same sustaining 
effect upon his spirit. He looked for it each 
evening, and prayed that its unknown guardian 
might receive the same comfort in her own 
troubles which all unwittingly she had min- 
istered to him. 

"Why make a long story when what fol- 
lowed is so evident? After that the Abbot 
was a frequent visitor at the Chateau of 
Mont Joie — he loved the very name, and 
found it strangely appropriate— and he met 
Mademoiselle also at his brother's Chateau 
of Tanlay, or at Conde's at Noyers, for the 
Protestant nobility drew together in these 
troublous times. It was written in heaven 
that they should belong to each other. When 
Elizabeth de Haute ville was away from home, 
Odet de Coligny knew it, for no star beamed 
for him, and forthwith an ungovernable rest- 
lessness possessed him, and he called for 
Humilite and ambled away to Noyers to visit 
his dear cousin of Conde: but if Elizabeth 
were not there, Conde's discussion of politics 
became to him as the vain patter of the rain 
upon the eaves, and he felt it incumbent upon 
him to fare farther to assure himself of the 
health and well-being of his brother d' Andelot. 

' ' She was at Tanlay on the breaking out of 



14 French Abbeys 

the second civil war, and herself buckled on 
his armour before he set out for the battle- 
field of St. Denis. D'Andelot was shouting 
to his brother that his Vezelaian arquebusiers 
had arrived and were demanding their com- 
mander, and that it was time to be off. They 
had but an instant more together, but in that 
instant all barriers were swept away like 
stubble before devouring flame, and Odet de 
Coligny knew that his excommunication had 
brought him the greatest blessing of his life, 

"The campaign was a short one, and on 
his return to Tanlay Theodore de Beze, now 
the Admiral's chaplain, united him to Eliza- 
beth de Hauteville in the little chapel, in the 
presence of the Coligny family, the Condes, 
and a few other true and tried friends. 

"The marriage was not immediately made 
public, and Elizabeth returned to the Chateau 
Mont Joie, to be near her husband and to 
await certain negotiations which it was be- 
lieved would put the Protestants on an equal 
footing with the Romanists. It was at this 
juncture that the lanterne des morts, at first 
so piously tended, with no thought of any 
personal gain, became a means of communi- 
cation between them. They developed an 
alphabet of flashes by means of alternately 



The Golden Mystery 15 

shading and displaying the light and shooting 
it from different sides of the lantern. Odet, 
who dabbled in chemistry, gave her a prepar- 
ation of lime which burned with intense 
brilliancy and could be seen even on cloudy 
nights. They could now hold long conver- 
sations with each other, and though peasants 
occasionally noted the shooting beams they 
universally attributed them to the feux 
follets, the ghost fires or will-o'-the-wisps. 

' ' Soon the Abbot had many serious matters 
to communicate to his wife. Both Pro- 
testants and Catholics were preparing quite 
openly for the third religious war, the bitter- 
est and longest which had distracted France. 
The Protestant leaders were encouraged now 
by messages from Jeanne d'Albret that she 
would meet them at the first sign of the 
breaking out of hostilities at La Rochelle 
with her young son, Henri of Navarre, who 
burned to serve his first campaign under 
Gaspard de Coligny. 

"The eyes of all France were soon to be 
fixed on this young hero. Already that 
serpent of a woman, Catherine de' Medici, 
recognised him as a powder to be reckoned 
with, crushed if possible, conciliated if he 
could not be crushed. He stood very near 



i6 French Abbeys 

the throne. If her sons left no heirs he was 
the next in Hne. Very soon her plots would 
succeed, and she would marry him to her 
beautiful daughter, Marguerite de Valois. 
But while she schemed the Colignys also 
formed their plans. The one hope for Pro- 
testantism in France lay in the intervention 
of England. If Queen Elizabeth would es- 
pouse their cause, the King of France would 
not dare coerce his subjects of the Reformed 
Faith. The Virgin Queen was much older 
than the King of Navarre, then but fifteen, 
but age does not matter in royal alliances. 
It was agreed to send an ambassador to offer 
the Queen of England the hand of Henri of 
Navarre — and Odet de Coligny was selected 
as the one who could best perform this 
mission, and his wife was secretly prepar- 
ing to accompany him. 

"Gaucelim had Coligny 's sumpter mules 
loaded with necessities for the journey and 
was at his door with Humilite in the early 
dawn of the sixth of October, 1569, and the 
Abbot, bidding farewell to the chosen few 
who had been informed of his intended 
mission, was about to set foot in stirrup, 
when the great alarm-bell of the monastery 
rang out peal on peal, and the warden came 



The Golden Mystery 17 

running to tell him that the plain was alive 
with galloping artillerymen, who were hur- 
riedly drawing up their pieces in a threatening 
attitude before the gates of the Abbey. 

"It was the advance guard of the royal 
army under General Sansac, which had sur- 
prised them. They were in a state of siege, 
and with the exception of the false varlet 
Gaucelim, who ran away that night, not so 
much as a mouse might enter or issue for 
many weary months from the beleaguered 
Vezelay. 

"It was not so easy a matter to reduce 
this impregnable Abbey as Sansac had im- 
agined. The monks were courageous, and 
made many sorties, surprising and inflicting 
great loss upon their besiegers; though they 
could not entirely drive them away. But 
Sansac had come to spend the winter, and he 
waited for all his battalions to arrive and 
especially for Marshal Famine, well knowing 
that the beseiged would fight with less heart 
when their stomachs were empty. 

"He had chosen for his own headquarters 
the Chateau of Mont Joie because it gave so 
extended a view of the plain to the east of 
Vezelay and of the monastery itself. He 
left the de Hautevilles in possession of the 



1 8 French Abbeys 

wing nearest the little graveyard, but told 
them that they must submit for their own 
safety to certain rules of his making, one of 
the most important of which was that they 
must not leave the grounds of the chateau. 
So they were both his prisoners and his hosts, 
for he ate at their table. 

Elizabeth noted with satisfaction that the 
guard of the chateau patrolled the outer wall 
of the cemetery and that her access through 
the family tomb to the lanterne des mortsw a.s 
unimpeded. She could still hold communi- 
cation with her husband, and she established 
it that night, sending him advices from the 
enemy's very headquarters. It was a great 
comfort to her to receive his answering signal, 
as it was to Odet de Coligny to know that she 
was unmolested. They cautiously avoided 
too frequent communication and for a time 
it was undiscovered. 

' ' The siege of Vezelay continued all winter. 
Sansac trained his guns on the fortifications 
of the monastery to no effect. His army 
dwindled, hundreds of men were killed in the 
sorties during the winter, while the mortality 
among the besieged was very trifling. 

' ' But when spring came the crisis on which 
Sansac had counted arrived. Provisions be- 



The Golden Mystery 19 

gan to give out in the Abbey. The arms of 
the windmill whirled as busily as ever, but it 
was a feint to deceive the besiegers, for the 
granaries were empty — there was no wheat 
to grind. And now, with insufficient and poor 
food, the pest broke out, and each day the 
body of an emaciated monk was laid in the 
little burying-ground of the Abbey. Odet 
told Elizabeth of their sore need, but she, a 
prisoner, was powerless to help him, until 
one day to her great surprise she recognised 
among the hangers-on who awaited in the 
castle court an audience with General San- 
sac, who but her husband's valet, Gaucelim. 
The recognition was mutual, though Gaucelim 
avoided her gaze, and as there were others 
present she could not have told that his in- 
difference was not feigned had she not been 
warned by Odet of his desertion. Filled 
with curiosity as to his mission with General 
Sansac, she was minded that the General's 
favourite chair was close beside a window 
which opened into the garden, and that the 
shrubbery beneath it was dense enough to 
screen an eavesdropper. She slipped to the 
garden, and under hiding of the flowering 
bushes stole close to the open casement, 
and was presently rewarded by hearing the 



20 French Abbeys 

conversation between the General and Gauce- 
lim. The traitor spoke first of her. 

" 'Do you know, my General, that you 
have the Abbot of Vezelay in your power? 
Mademoiselle de Hauteville is his bten aimee 
and maintains a correspondence with him in 
some way that I have not been able to dis- 
cover. Through her you can entrap him if 
you but allow her to lure him from the Abbey. 
You can do even more. I know of a surety 
that Odet de Coligny has letters of importance 
which he was to carry to England. I would 
have lured him with them into your power 
had you but stayed your coming a few hours, 
but you discovered yourself before he had 
left his citadel.' 

'So,' replied the General; 'why did you 
not persuade the Abbot to allow you to carry 
them to Mademoiselle and make her his 
carrier pigeon ? ' 

" 'He would not trust me,' Gaucelim re- 
plied; 'but he trusts her. You must hatch 
your own plot to make him confide the let- 
ters to her and then squeeze them from her. 
I give you the clue, it is surely worth 
something.' 

" ' It is worth a hundred crowns to you if it 
amounts to anything,' the General replied, 



The Golden Mystery 21 

musingly. 'You say that Coligny trusts you 
not, but trusts Mademoiselle. She doubtless 
knows that you were once in the employ of 
her lover. You have delivered letters to her 
ere this. Could you not persuade her that you 
come from him now, and bear back a letter 
in her hand which would make even him trust 
you with the packet from La Rochelle ? ' 

" 'I might get a missive from her,' said 
Gaucelim, 'but I like not the idea of facing 
the Abbot again. Nevertheless I will try, 
for the Abbot is confiding and forgiving, and 
his love for her makes him blind. Also I 
would like those hundred crowns. Let me 
think out a plan, for there are more ways 
than one to skin a cat. Meantime to our 
other business. The monks of Clairvaux 
have sent a train of provisions to Vezelay, 
great tuns of wine from their vineyards of 
Chablis, and waggonloads of barley and wheat 
from their granges. The train will halt to- 
day in the forest of Aigremont awaiting in- 
formation from me as to the best means of 
getting into the Abbey. I am supposed to 
be now in conference with Abbot Odet and 
am to return to them at midnight and con- 
voy the train to that gate of the monastery 
least under your surveillance. You have but 



22 French Abbeys 

to tell me which route to take, and where 
your men would prefer to fall upon them to 
capture the entire train.' 

" 'Good,' said Sansac; 'but will the monks 
fight?' 

'Not a monk ventures from his monkery; 
the carters are but stupid peasants who know 
not whither they are bound. They will run 
like deer at the first sound of firing.' 

" 'A master-stroke,' chuckled Sansac; 
'bring them by the Col de la Croix de Mont 
Joie. The gorge is narrow — ^we will take the 
carts one by one as they cross the bridge. 
We will let the yokels escape, if they make no 
resistance. I will myself be in the old tower 
to broach the first cask of Chablis. You are 
a rare forage-master, and shall be rewarded 
for this, Gaucelim. We will send the Abbot 
a bottle as a sample of what he has lost. Get 
to bed now in the loft over the stables, for 
your eyes are heavy, and you have more 
owl's work for this night. Take the white 
horse in the stall at the left of the stable when 
you set out, for he is the best of the stud. 
The password to-night ever3Avhere is "The 
King's business." We shall have a merry 
meeting when you return, but drink not till 
I give you leave — it is your weakness, my lad. 



The Golden Mystery 23 

I will send you a stirrup-cup when you start. 
See you take no other.' 

"Elizabeth tiptoed from her hiding-place, 
thinking hard and fast. Would no good 
angel inspire her with some scheme to out- 
wit this knavery? Suddenly she saw her 
opportunity, and she hurried to the still- 
room of the chateau where she had often as- 
sisted her hostess in the preparation of 
medicaments for the poor of the neighbour- 
hood. She took a flask of the strongest 
liqueur of the good monks of La Grande Char- 
treuse, poured out a glass, and refilled the 
flask from another bottle labelled 'Syrup of 
Poppies, For the Solacing of those Sleepless 
through great Pain.' 

"Calling a page, she bade him take the 
drugged liqueur to a young man whom he 
would find in the stable-loft. 

'Tell him,' she said, 'that General Sansac 
sends it to him for it has power to quicken 
the wits, and will warm his heart for the 
adventure which he has before him.' 

"She could do nothing further until night- 
fall, when she lighted the lamp in the lan- 
terne des morts for the last time. 'Heaven 
send,' she prayed, 'that Odet sees my signal.' 
He saw it instantly. Famished and despair- 



24 French Abbeys 

ing, he had been pacing his terrace when the 
calcium ray shot its white finger across the 
sky. 

" 'Make a sortie at three this night,' the 
moving finger wrote, 'on the Nevers side of 
the Abbey.' 

"Odet de CoHgny hastily lighted his own 
beacon. 

" ' I will be on the road with the best force 
I can muster ; but what is on hand ? ' 

' ' Again the beam darted its welcome news : 

" 'Your brethren of Clairvaux will send 
you supplies from that direction. There is 
only a feeble guard to the west of Vezelay; 
do not let them cut off your succour.' 

' ' There was little time for dalliance in con- 
versation with her beloved, but she told him 
how she had learned this good news through 
Gaucelim's treachery, and warned him to 
beware of him on all occasions. Then, bid- 
ding her husband a hasty farewell, she 
shaded the taper with her fingers and climbed 
to the stable loft where she counted on find- 
ing Gaucelim overcome by the sleeping potion 
and where she had intended to don his cloth- 
ing and so take the road and lead the pro- 
vision train to Vezelay. 

"What was her consternation to find the 



The Golden Mystery 25 

loft vacant, as well as the stall which should 
have contained the white horse. Gaucelim 
had supposed that the General had antici- 
pated the time set for his start and he had 
already started upon his errand. Had he 
suspected then that the liqueur was drugged ? 
But no, the empty flask lay by the door of the 
stable. He had drunk every drop as he set 
foot in stirrup. 

" 'It will work its power upon him,' she 
thought, 'as he rides. He will be maudlin 
when he reaches the train; in no condition 
to give his message. I can still circumvent 
him.' 

"She looked about her eagerly: a great 
riding-coat, boots, and hat belonging to one 
of the couriers hung in the harness room, and 
she donned them, hiding her petticoats in the 
hay. Then she led her own mare from its 
stall, and as she did so a sleepy groom stumbled 
in and demanded what she was about. 

" 'The King's business,' she replied, for- 
tunately remembering the pass-word. 

" 'The Devil's rather,' the groom grumbled, 
but he put a man's saddle on the mare and 
fitted her heels with spurs, for a servant came 
from the chateau with a flagon of spiced wine, 
and presenting it to Elizabeth, said: 



26 French Abbeys 

" 'The General sends you this stirrup-cup, 
as he promised, and bids you hasten.' 

"She made as if she drank a portion and 
handed the cup to the groom while the 
General's servant accompanied her to the 
drawbridge and wished her a lucky adventure 
as she rode cautiously down the steep incline. 
The castle clock boomed ten when she struck 
the level road and gave the mare her head. 
She had two hours to make the fifteen kilo- 
metres to reach the provision train at the 
time that Gaucelim had promised that he 
would return, and it was important that she 
should reach it first. It was the first time 
that she had sat a horse in six months, and 
she was riding now cross-saddle in a manner 
to which she was not accustomed, but she 
braced her feet in the stirrups and the reali- 
sation that she was outside her prison walls, 
free, free! was like wine to her spirits. She 
did not ride, she fairly flew. There was no 
moon, but it was a clear star-lit night, and the 
road stretched white before her. A sentry 
barred her passage as she rode through a 
village, but at the words,. 'The King's busi- 
ness,' he lowered his piece, with the question, 
'How many of you are abroad to-night?' 

" 'I am the last,' said Elizabeth; 'hold 



The Golden Mystery 27 

any one who follows me till you are certain 
of his credentials, for there be spies about. 
How long ago was it that my comrade went 
by?' 

" 'If you mean a drunken fellow on a 
white horse, nigh half an hour — but the King 
would best not send many such messengers, 
for the sot could hardly hiccough the pass- 
word, and were it not that his horse carried 
him gingerly, he could not have kept his 
seat.' 

"He had done better than she had hoped 
in keeping it thus far, but Gaucelim had 
learned to sleep in the saddle, and had taken 
many a long ride in a tipsy condition. 

"Elizabeth began to fear that she would 
not overtake him, and if he reached the 
rendezvous in the wood of Aigremont before 
her the carters would not believe any word 
of hers to his discredit, for she was a stranger, 
and the monks of Clairvaux had placed the 
train in his care. Suddenly her mare shied 
at a huddled heap in the road and nearly threw 
her. She leapt from her saddle. It was 
Gaucelim, lying stupefied, but otherwise un- 
hurt. While she dragged him behind the 
hedge, the white horse whinnied and trotted 
up to her. He had had a rest of some 



28 French Abbeys 

twenty minutes and had not been ridden so 
hard as her own, and Elizabeth turned her 
exhausted mare into the neighbouring field — 
glad of a comparatively fresh steed. Then 
she divested Gaucelim of his doublet and 
hose — it was an old livery worn while his 
master was Cardinal — and she kissed the 
scarlet hat embroidered on the breast, and 
clothed herself with care, for at daylight the 
exigencies of her present costume would be 
apparent. 

"She made a pretty page, but her hair was 
long and she hacked at it savagely with 
Gaucelim's rapier. Hastily mounting, she 
struck out again much cheered by this piece 
of good luck. A lamp shone from the ter- 
race of Vezelay. Her husband was sending 
her a message, but from this different point of 
view she could not read it. She was cheered, 
however, by the knowledge that he was think- 
ing of her. 'By dawn I shall be with you, 
my own darling,' she laughed and threw him 
a kiss as she rode, thinking gleefully of his 
surprise and delight. How many times in 
the old days before he had broken with Rome 
she had asked him to let her visit Vezelay, 
but he had been obdurate. No woman's 
foot must enter the monastery, and Protestant 



The Golden Mystery 29 

though he was even then at heart, he would 
not break down the discipline of the rule of 
St. Benoit, or have it said that he had violated 
the sanctuary and corrupted his monks by 
his example. Now she was coming in spite 
of his prohibition, and they would never, 
never be separated more. 

"She reached the forest of Aigremont at 
the time appointed, just as the carters were 
breaking camp. 

" 'You are to divide the convoy,' she ex- 
plained. 'The wine is to make a long circuit 
by the way of Mont Joie, but all the grain by 
the direct route through Asquins.' 

"There was ruse in the order. The great 
tuns of Chablis would arrive at the am- 
buscade as expected and convince de Sansac 
that his plan had succeeded, and that the 
rest of the train was simply delayed and 
would soon follow. While he and his men 
were carousing she would get the grain into 
Vezelay on the other side of the promontory. 

"This was in fact what occurred, but as the 
train of provisions approached Vezelay in the 
grey of early morning, Elizabeth saw a fierce 
combat in progress between the monks who 
had issued from the monastery and the 
videttes stationed at an outpost to guard 



30 French Abbeys 

against such a sortie. The carters were 
braver than Gaucelim had reported them, 
and hastily unharnessing and mounting their 
heavy draught horses the score of men came 
lumbering across the plain, plumping into the 
melee and attacking the soldiers in the flank 
with the only weapons which they carried, 
their murderous whips. The long snake -like 
thongs circled and cracked with reports like 
those of firearms and horse and man gave 
way, borne down by the impact of the charge. 
"Odet de Coligny had led his men with 
such recklessness that he had burst through 
tJie enemy's line and reining in Humility 
was circling back to his monks, when the 
carters made their onset. There was no sign 
of the provision train and in the obscurity 
of the dawn and the confusion of the hand- 
to-hand encounter he took them for a rein- 
forcement of the enemy, and when Elizabeth 
rode recklessly toward him waving her light 
rapier and shouting 'Au secoursV he did not 
recognise her. As she came near, her mantle 
streamed backward and he recognised Gau- 
celim's livery, with his own Cardinal's hat 
embroidered in red on the tabard of the 
tunic, and his hasty thought was that the 
traitor had trapped him. 



The Golden Mystery 31 

"He rose in his stirrups and hurled his 
mace with all his force — and Elizabeth fell 
headlong at his feet. 

"A moment later the enemy had vanished 
as though blown away by a whirlwind, and 
as the carters reharnessed their horses and 
brought up the provision train, the Abbot 
saw that he had mistaken the intentions of 
the youth who had ridden so madly toward 
him, and crying 'Gaucelim, my poor boy, 
forgive me,' knelt beside him. 

"Then with a more intensely bitter cry, 
'My God, my God, what have I done?' he 
lifted the slight form in his arms and rode 
back to the Abbey. 

"It was like their tender-hearted Abbot, 
the monks said to one another, that he 
should feel this deep remorse for the death 
of this lad at his hand by sad misapprehen- 
sion of his motives. But when the brother- 
hood were summoned to the Abbey church 
to take part in the requiem mass they were 
transfixed with wonder to see lying upon the 
bier before the high altar a girlish form robed 
in the chiefest treasure of their sacristy, the 
dress of cloth of gold, given to the Abbey by 
Queen Eleanor. The light of the tall candles 
that flanked the bier fell upon their Abbot 



32 French Abbeys 

kneeling by its side, while the chaplain who 
intoned the service bade them pray for the 
soul of the noble lady Elizabeth de Hanteville 
de Coligny, Countess of Beauvais, true and 
honourable wife of the most unhappy Odet de 
Coligny de Chatillon, sometime Abbot of 
Vezelay." 

"Quatrevaux," we said, "your story does 
credit to your inventive powers, but un- 
fortunately for its credibility it is a known 
fact that Elizabeth outlived her husband, 
who was poisoned in England by his valet in 
1 57 1. It is therefore manifestly impossible 
that Odet de Coligny could have slain her in 
this melodramatic way." 

"Madame is perfectly right as to her 
facts," Quatrevaux replied, with imperturb- 
ability, ' ' but Madame picks me up a little too 
hastily. I never said that the Abbot killed 
his wife, or gave the date of her death. God 
was better to Odet de Coligny than he feared, 
for his mace had not touched Elizabeth, but 
had struck her horse between the eyes, and 
she had been simply stunned by her fall. 
As the Abbot carried her on his saddle-bow 
back to Vezelay he felt the pulsing of her 
heart against his own, and the convulsive 
drawing of her breath as she regained con- 



The Golden Mystery 33 

sciousness, and he strained her the more^ 
closely to his breast, 

"Calling the brotherhood together in the 
Chapter House he presented his wife to thein 
and told them all the truth. They cheered 
her until the vaulted roof rang again, as well 
they might, for the provisions which she had 
brought in saved them all from famine and 
enabled the Abbey to hold out until Sansac, 
despairing of reducing it, drew off his army 
after an ineffectual siege of eight months, 
having in that time fired — all to no purpose — 
upwards of three thousand volleys from his 
great siege guns and lost fifteen hundred of 
the King's soldiers. 

"Elizabeth accompanied her husband to 
England, where, thanks in great part to 
the interest which Queen Elizabeth took in 
her, Odet de Coligny prospered in his em- 
bassy. The Queen gave him cannon, muni- 
tions of war, and a hundred thousand angelots 
for the French Protestants. She was listen- 
ing favourably, too, to the proposals of Henri 
of Navarre when Catherine de' Medici put 
the bloodhound Gaucelim upon the Abbot's 
track, who poisoned him precisely as Madame 
has related. 

' ' Elizabeth de Coligny returned to Mont 



34 French Abbeys 

Joie. She tended the lanterne des morts with 
ceaseless sohcitude, and beheved that her 
husband answered her with star-signals. When 
she died, an aged woman, the monks of 
Vezelay claimed her body, and wrapping it 
in the Golden Mystery laid it in their richest 
tomb, as a fitting acknowledgment to one 
who had done so much for them." 

"Quatrevaux, Quatrevaux," we remon- 
strated, "you are a sad rogue, though a 
clever one. I fear you forget that horrible 
fracture in the forehead of the skeleton. If 
not made by the Abbot's mace, how do you 
account for that, my friend?" 

Our guide's lips curled contemptuously. 

"Madame is very curious about unim- 
portant details. I have already explained 
that the lid of the sarcophagus was very 
heavy. It slipped from my father's hand as 
he was removing it, and, much to his regret, 
the skull of the then unknown woman was 
crushed. Madame must not impute to me 
any intention of deceit. It is the exuberance 
of Madame 's own imagination, and no lie of 
mine, which has suggested that Elizabeth 
de Hauteville de Coligny died any other than 
a peaceful, natural death." 




CHAPTER II 

THE MASTERPIECE OF FRERE PLACIDE 



■'N' 



OW what can Frere Placide want of 
the Abbot, I wonder," grumbled Frere 
Elbertus to the pretty lace-maker, Margot, 
as they stood a little apart from the throng 
waiting in the garden for audience with the 
Abbot of Cluny. , 

"Very much what you and I want, I 
fancy," replied Margot; "some favour of 
Monseigneur. ' ' 

. "But what can it be?" persisted the cus- 
todian of the scriptorium. ' ' You have brought 
some of your beautiful lace for the border of 
an .alb. I crave his attention to work of my 
illuminators; but a blacksmith! gr-r! Is a 
prince of the Church like Dominique de la 
Rochefoucauld likely to be interested in 
kitchen fire-irons? It makes me ill to see an 

35 



36 French Abbeys 

ignorant pounder of metal give himself such 
airs. Figure to yourself, Margot, I have 
twice warned him from the scriptorium. 
What business has he who cannot read the 
learned tongues with our precious manu- 
scripts? And yet there he was, studying the 
ivy-bordered pages of the precious missal 
which the Due de Berry presented to the 
Abbey. And what do you imagine the rascal 
did last week when I refused him quill and 
inkhom to trace the strap-work ornament 
on the copy of the Koran which a Saracen of 
Toledo transcribed for Peter the Venerable? 
Why the drole brought a ball of stout twine 
and braided the pattern in the same intricate 
fashion. Imbecile! How is it possible that 
a sane man should amuse himself twiddling 
strings?" 

"That is what I used to ask myself," re- 
plied Margot. "He often comes to our 
house to watch me at my lace-making and to 
turn over my patterns. At first I thought 
it was for old acquaintance sake, for we 
played together as children. Not at all, for 
at last he brings with him a bit of pine 
board and a stick of charcoal, and makes 
free to draw off the very passion flowers 
which I have worked in this lace, and then 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide zi 

the secret was out. He was after designs for 
his metal-work, and 't is marvellous how he 
can tease and twist the iron into coiling 
tendrils and beat it into crumpled petals. 
Have you not marked the scroll-work in the 
bracket -sign which hangs before the lock- 
smith's booth in the marche? He is no 
ordinary farrier. Placid waters run deep, 
they say, and Frere Placide deserves his 
name." 

' ' Placid indeed ! — stagnant rather, ' ' retorted 
Frere Elbertus; "he has not even the spirit 
to resent injuries. Will nothing ever make 
him angry? Look at him now. That bully 
Odo has twice hurtled against him, and he 
stands unresentfully staring up at the clock- 
tower, as though it took more than a glance 
to note the time. Staring, and smiling, is 
he waiting like a baby to see the figures come 
out, think you?" 

. It was precisely what Frere Placide was 
doing. He loved at all times to watch the 
great mechanical clock, for, at the time of 
striking, two bronze blacksmiths issued from 
doors on either side and beat the hours, with 
alternate strokes, upon an anvil gong. It 
seemed to the simple artisan-monk no mean 
tribute to his craft that the artificer of the 



38 French Abbeys 

clock should have chosen brawny smiths for 
his statues and have set them up on high, 
at the entrance of the Abbey church, for all 
to admire. In his pleasure in watching them 
bend to their task he did not forget that they 
were striking the hour of the Abbot's audi- 
ence. Margot was right when she said that 
still waters may run deep. The name of 
Placidus had not come by chance, but had 
been bestowed on him during his novitiate 
by common accord of the brotherhood as to 
its fitness. Gentle by nature, his clear eyes, 
blue as some unruffled lake, allowed you to 
look into the depths of his tranquil soul, un- 
perturbed by any passion except the passion 
for his art. No one could have suspected 
that the interview which he was awaiting 
without visible impatience or excitement 
marked a crisis in his life, that admiration 
and love of the Abbey had taken the place 
in his heart of the love of woman, and the 
ambition of the artist swelled his soul to 
leave it a masterpiece which would render 
it for ever glorious. 

For this he had toiled for years, but lack 
of time deferred the realisation of his hope. 
There was always some staircase ramp or 
balcony, or work, of less importance, to be 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 39 

executed. In hours snatched from sleep he 
had thought, and sleeping dreamed, until 
the design of a noble grille took shape in his 
mind. He knew the very place for it. The 
choir was closed in by a double jube, or 
rood-screen, of antiquated and coarse work- 
manship. He would substitute intricate 
metal-work which would lend the sparkling 
lights and rich adornment of the high altar 
the fascination of mystery. 

Such a task would demand the labour of 
years, and Frere Placide had seen the sands 
of his life slipping away, day by day wasted 
upon trifling objects. 

He had been faithful and uncomplaining, 
outwardly as calm as ever, but his patience 
hid a haunting fear that possibly he might 
not be permitted this dearest desire of his 
heart. 

If only the Abbot would come to Cluny 
and take other interest in his Abbey than in 
drawing its revenues. And at last Domin- 
ique de la Rochefoucauld, Abbe Commehda- 
taire, had visited his benefice, and Frere 
Placide had plucked up courage to ask an 
audience with the great man to explain to 
him his cherished scheme. 

What manner of man was this courtier 



40 French Abbeys 

Abbot? he wondered. One branch of the 
de la Rochefoucaulds had been Huguenots 
during the rehgious wars. They were all 
brilliant men as well as great nobles. But 
this was no sufferer for conscience' sake. All 
the better for the hopes of Frere Placide — ^he 
was less likely to be a contemner of luxury 
and beauty. Would he prove a patron of 
art, like Jean de Bourbon? More likely he 
cared only for his own indulgences and ag- 
grandisement, and the timid monk almost 
regretted his hardihood when the porter bade 
him enter the audience chamber. 

The Abbot's face was kindly and Frere 
Placide poured forth his aspirations as he 
laid his drawings before him. 

Dominique de la Rochefoucauld did not 
immediately examine them, he studied in- 
stead the face of the enthusiast, and a great 
pity showed itself in his own. 

"My son," he said, "this is a most am- 
bitious desire on your part. To realise it 
you should have not only genius but educa- 
tion. By what master have you been 
taught? Have you travelled and seen the 
masterpieces already created? You know, 
I presume, that exquisite work in iron is now 
being produced. The Abbot of Saint Ouen 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 41 

at Rouen has just erected a grille of such 
beauty in his abbey church that the King 
himself envies its possession. You have not 
seen it of course, but Sens is nearer, and the 
Archbishop boasts that his gates are finer 
than those of Saint Ouen. Then, last of all, 
there is the ironwork of Jean Lamour at 
Nancy. Can you rival that ? " 

Frere Placide spread his hands deprecat- 
ingly: "I have never been taught. I have 
never been away from Cluny." 

"My poor fellow! What, then, can you 
hope to do?" 

"Nothing, Monseigneur, " and Frere Pla- 
cide patiently extended his hand for his 
drawings. 

"Wait a moment, I will at least look at 
them," and the Abbot bent over the papers. 

Frere Placide could not see the scorn which 
he felt in the ominous silence, and his own 
abashed gaze was fixed upon the pavement 
when de la Rochefoucauld finished his scrutiny 
of the designs. 

"It is as I supposed," the Abbot said at 
length; "the plans betray your lack of 
teaching. Why,' the veriest tyro among 
Parisian apprentices could present a more 
showy set of drawings. You must give up 



42 French Abbeys 

this work under the Prieur Claustral, the 
making of locks and hinges for the new 
cloisters, and go back " 

The Abbot paused, for he noticed that 
Frere Placide, though calm as ever, had 
turned white. 

"Man," he exclaimed, "you misunder- 
stand me. There is no occasion for such 
despair. I said that without genius and 
education you could do nothing, but lack 
of education can be supplied, and, my son, 
you have what never can be acquired — true 
genius — and you shall forge your gates, only 
first you must see what your rivals are doing 
and you must go back — not to your booth 
in the market — but with me to Paris. You 
shall live with me there at our town house 
which Jacques d'Amboise built for the Abbots 
of Cluny. There is some very pretty work 
in that little palace, and you shall study and 
surpass the best that France has to show. 
Sit down, if your trembling legs will not sus- 
tain you, and my cellarer will bring you a 
cup of wine. Two glasses, Frangois, and we 
will drink to the new grille. I shall invite 
the Abbot of St. Ouen to visit me when it is 
finished, as he did me, to show me Nicolas 
Flambart's screen, and shall have the laugh 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 43 

on him, too, for you have twice Flambart's 
genius." 

De la Rochefoucauld bettered his promises, 
and Frere Placide proved that he merited his 
Abbot's confidence. For twenty years he 
laboured upon his screen, twenty years of 
enthusiastic toil, mingled with the privileges 
of travel and study. At last, in 1785, his 
masterpiece was completed. 

It was a great day for Cluny when, the 
last rivet having been set, the grille was un- 
veiled by the Abbot in the presence of a vast 
concourse. The Abbey choir chanted the 
Magnificat, and as Frere Placide listened to 
the triumphant paean, "He hath put down the 
mighty from their seat, and hath exalted 
them of low degree," he knew that he was 
signified in the ' ' exaltavit humiles. ' ' But the 
chant had a double meaning, and, musing on 
the "deposuit potentes," the face of the very 
noble lord Abbot, Dominique de la Roche- 
foucauld, prince and peer of the realm, was 
very grave, and his heart like lead. As a 
man of the world he knew the signs of the 
times, and foresaw that France would soon 
fall on evil days. Perhaps this would be his 
last visit to the Abbey — for he was already 
considering the possibility of flight. 



44 French Abbeys 

But Frere Placide knew nothing of the 
storm which was gathering. He was growing 
old and would achieve no more masterpieces ; 
but he laboured industriously tipon the orders 
which the fame of his artistr}^ now brought 
to Cluny. It was purely commercial work 
for which he would receive no renown and 
not even the poor guerdon of pecuniary 
profit, for the important sums received went 
to the Abbey, and his vow of poverty held; 
but he was content, for had he not accom- 
plished his heart's desire? Every day he 
visited his gates, and felt of the delicate 
tracery, or gloated over it with his e3^es, 
and knew that it was beautiful. 

But at last, in the summer of 1789, Clun}^ 
woke to a realisation of what was eoinsr on 
in France. A band of brigand sans -culottes 
ro\^ng through Burgundy attacked the Abbey 
in the hope of pillage ; but the townspeople 
rose en masse and drove them away, and ever 
through the troubles which followed showed 
themselves ti*ue to their loved Abbey. They 
could not stand, however, before the will of 
the National Assembly, and two years later 
the monks were ejected from their home, 
which was declared the propert}^ of the 
nation. 




GRILLE OF ABBEY CHURCH OF SAINT OUEN, AT ROUEN. 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 45 

Even then the anxiety that racked Frere 
Placide was not for himself. "What will 
become of our glorious church?" he asked. 

"Have no fear," replied the intrepid Mayor 
of Cluny, "the town will purchase it, for we 
will never allow so magnificent a monument 
to perish." 

In his trouble Frere Placide was consoled 
by the thought that his work had helped 
make the church beautiful, and that this 
beauty would melt the hearts of despoilers 
and help to save it from destruction. Calmly 
the aged man took his old place at the humble 
locksmith's booth under the swinging key in 
the town market, and the townspeople gave 
him orders for andirons, cranes, and pot- 
hooks for their chimneys, and brought him 
misfit keys to file and clumsy utensils to 
mend, as in his first apprenticeship. 

Brother Elbertus, custodian of the scrip- 
torium, was more unhappy than he, for 
revolutionary marauders from turbulent Ma- 
con had made a bonfire on the fair-grounds, 
and had burned all of the precious manu- 
scripts which he had not been able to conceal, 
together with the wood carvings of the 
church. 

Frere Placide saw the iconoclastic mob 



46 French Abbeys 

surge through the sacred edifice, decorating 
themselves with costly vestments, rifling the 
tresor, and feeding the flames with altar 
candles and waxen votive offerings, and, 
while his heart ached for the wanton sacri- 
lege, he thanked the saints that he had 
chosen to make his masterpiece, not of gold 
or gems, which might tempt the cupidity of 
thieves, or of perishable materials like the' 
illuminations of the scriptorium and Margot's 
exquisite lace, but of enduring iron. 

"And not till the earth itself shrivels in 
flames," he thought, "will my iron again feel 
the fire!" 

False hope and futile comfort. A few 
days before the old man's eightieth birthday, 
in the winter of 1794, a long train of carts, 
escorted by soldiers, halted before the Abbey 
church. Margot came running breathless to 
the locksmith's booth crying, "Frere Placide, 
Frere Placide, come quickly; they are taking 
down the bells from the clocher to be melted 
into cannon, and have sent men to your forge 
for sledge hammers to break up your gates ! ' ' 

For the first time in his life excitement 
showed itself in the face of the placid monk, 
and he hastened to the church, where a 
crowd of townspeople had gathered before 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 47 

him. His friend, the Mayor of Cluny, met 
him at the door, "Come away, dear Frere 
Placide, you must not see what they are 
doing. I have told them that it is against 
my interdict, but they have authority higher 
than mine. The nation requires all our iron 
and bronze for the manufacture of arms. 
See, the masons have broken out the little 
central column in the upper arcade of the 
Tour de VEau Benite, to allow the passage of 
the great alarm-bell, the one that is never 
rung except in time of danger, or tolled but 
on the death of an abbot. It is tolling now 
as though it knew our calamities." 

The workmen had indeed neglected to 
muffle the tongue of the bell, and it boomed 
ominously as it was lowered from its place in 
the Tower of the Holy Water. But Frere 
Placide 's quick ear caught other sinister 
sounds above the hoarse reverberations of 
the bell; the blows of heavy hammers on 
resonant metal, and alas ! the crash of rending 
iron and sharp jangle of fragments falling 
upon the marble floor. 

The lace-maker clung to him, but he flung 
her aside and dashed up the chancel. Yes, 
they had dared to strike his heart's treasure, 
and were breaking out the central panel. 



48 French Abbeys 

The emblems of the Saviour's passion, the 
three nails, the spear, and the hammer came 
flying in his face as he ran forward to pro- 
hibit this sacrilege. 

Instantly a great change transformed the 
mild monk. None would have said that this 
raging giant deserved the name of Placidus. 
He wrenched a sledge hammer from the 
hands of a smith and whirled it about his 
head. Workmen and soldiers fled from him, 
and he stood alone in the entrance to the 
choir like a madman at bay. The panic 
lasted but for a moment. At a safe distance 
from his powerful arms the sergeant drew up 
his squad, and a dozen gun-barrels covered 
Frere Placide. 

"Lay down your weapon and leave the 
building, or I give the order to flre!" com- 
manded the officer. 

But Frere Placide did not hear. Some- 
thing had snapped within his brain and his 
face turned purple. With his left hand he 
grasped the broken grille for support, his 
eyes saw only blood, and the hammer sank 
slowly to his side. He made no attempt to 
obey the order, and no one dared approach 
the motionless figure which stood so men- 
acingly on guard. 



The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 49 

"One, two, three, fire!" 

The order rang out relentlessly, but before 
the quick volley obeyed the command Frere 
Placide fell forward before his ruined master- 
piece, untouched by the bullets that flew 
over him, for the man who was never angry 
in all his life had died from intensity of un- 
accustomed rage. 




CHAPTER III 

THE WOLF OF ST. FRANCIS 

" I 've drunk sheer madness! Not with wine, 
But old fantastic tales miraculous." 

A LITTLE aside from the direct route as 
one goes from Aries to Les Baux 
through Mistral's wonderful country stands 
the ruined Abbey of Montmajour. Its beau- 
tiful cloister, a gem of twelfth-century art, 
is brought into vivid contrast by a grim 
donjon keep, which guarded the only ap- 
proach, and kept the artist monks safe from 
all marauders while they illuminated the 
manuscripts which made their abbey famous. 
There lies before me a stray leaf of their 
illumination, the gift of a collector, bordered 
with floral arabesques in blue, upon a back- 
ground of what appears to be the most ex- 
quisite niello, a style of decoration copied 
from the metal work of their Lombard neigh- 

50 



The Wolf of St. Francis 5 ' 

hours. The graceful scroll-work intertwines 
a grotesque bestial figure with a fiend's body 
and a wolf's head and claws. From the 
jaws of this creature are escaping delicately 
painted butterflies, the symbol of the human 
soul. 

Why this strange combination? I won- 
dered, and I turned to the text thus in- 
tricately framed for an explanation of the 
caprice of the illuminator. 

It was the beautiful canticle of Saint 
Francis of Assisi, who visited Aries in the 
latter years of his life and was the honoured 
guest of the Abbey of Montmajour. I re- 
called his sensitive, tender nature, overflowing 
with love for every created being ; how, when 
interrupted in his preaching by the twittering 
of swallows, he said to them: 

"My little Sister Swallows, keep silence 
until I have finished my discourse, after 
which ye shall praise God" (see Note A). 

What had this gentle saint to do with fiends 
and wolves? The answer was given me by 
a MS. in old French script, between whose 
leaves the enriched page had been found. 
Was it genuine or a forgery ? The owner can- 
not say, and as I found it I give it without 
gloss or voucher. If the story seems wild 



52 French Abbeys 

and impossible, read it after a visit to the 
Abbey of Montmajour and the wind which 
howls ceaselessly through the desolate castle of 
Les Baux may lend it the vraisemblance which 
the writer has not been able to evoke. 

THE CONFESSION OF UGO DES BAUX 

I, Ugo, Lord of Les Baux and of seventy- 
eight other fiefs, King of Aries and Vienne, 
make this my humble confession to the glory 
of God and to the ever-blessed Francis of 
Assisi. Which confession I leave in the 
hands of the Abbot of Montmajour, to be 
kept sealed as a pledge of my repentance, and 
to be made public only in case of my relapse 
into mortal sin, and especially into the sins 
of arrogance, suspicion, and cruelty, which 
are the besetments of our race. 

Imprimis: be it at the outset plainly 
understood that in no such wise have I 
offended against that pearl of all women, 
Barrale, daughter of the very noble Barral, 
Viscount of Marseilles, and beyond all desert 
on my part my own true wife, save in that 
one moment when the lightning of God 
visited me with swift and incredible chas- 
tisement. 



The Wolf of St. Francis 53 

Nor was it without great provocation that 
my affection for my friend, Pierre Vidal, was 
turned into the bitterness of hatred. This 
I say not for my own exculpation but for 
the more perfect understanding of this my 
confession. 

It was at Marseilles that I first saw Vidal. 
He was a hanger-on at the court, a writer of 
love-poems to the Viscountess Alzais, mother 
of the sweet Barrale whom I had come to 
woo. The rogue was a merry companion, 
one who charmed men as well as women, and 
we were soon inseparable. I told him of my 
love for Barrale, and I know that he envied 
me, for his flaunted devotion to her mother 
was but policy, since no troubadour can win 
fame save through the patronage of some 
noble lady. And Vidal wrote sonnets not 
only for distinction but for silken attire and 
dainty food, for he was poor. These the 
Viscountess gave him for a time, but in the 
end his forward manners pleased her not 
and she had him banished from the court. 

Somewhiles after this I found him in sore 
misery at Aries, for he had boasted of another 
lady's favour, and her husband had caused 
him to be seized by his men-at-arms and with 
his own dagger and hand had slit his tongue. 



54 French Abbeys 

In pity for his suffering I took him to my 
castle of Les Batix, and there my wife nursed 
him, and I gave him trustingly of my hos- 
pitality and friendship until the serpent's 
tongue was healed and could tempt and lie 
as before. 

It was at Aries, whither I had gone with 
my wife for a few days' diversion, that I 
learned how vilely he had repaid my kind- 
ness. A friend who had lately returned from 
Avignon, where Vidal was carousing, told 
me that he had boasted of my wife's in- 
fatuation and of my stupidity, and that I 
was the jest of the town. 

It galled me more that he should have tra- 
duced us in Avignon than if it had chanced 
in any other city in the world, for its inhabit- 
ants are hereditary enemies of my family, and 
I need not to recall how they took my father 
by treachery, flayed him alive, and hung his 
mutilated corpse above their gates. There- 
fore when my friend told me of their scoffing, 
though this villainy had been committed 
when I was a babe and Simon de Montfort 
had abundantly avenged it, and though I had 
promised holy church on the cessation of 
hostilities to relinquish my right of vendetta, 
all my hatred for the men of Avignon flamed 



The Wolf of St. Francis 55 

forth, and I swore that I would serve Pierre 
Vidal as they had served my father, and send 
his felon carcass to Avignon as a warning 
that whoso laughed at the liar's jests should 
have like treatment. 

Though an old wound had been opened in 
the memory of my father's murder, it must 
be understood that its smart was as nothing 
to the rage which devoured me when I 
thought of my unfaithful friend; and all 
possibility of taking pleasure having departed 
from me I ordered my horses and sleigh to be 
brought to the door, my servants to follow 
with our luggage in another sledge, as I chose 
to drive, and bade my wife to prepare herself 
at once to return to our castle. 

She was vexed, for we had but just arrived 
in Aries, and there was feasting and dancing 
to which she had looked forward with de- 
light. She obeyed me without question, and 
seeing that I was in one of my worst moods 
kept silence as we sped homeward. The 
moon shone fitfully through scudding clouds, 
for a storm was gathering, and the winds 
sweeping through the gorges drove the snow 
before them down the staircase of lesser 
ranges by which the Alps step to the sea. 
Our road was flanked by precipices and 



56 French Abbeys 

furrowed by drifts. Had I not known every 
turn around the icy crags, every bridge 
across the chasms, where to look for ava- 
lanches, where the bears made their dens, 
and where bandits might fall upon us, it 
would have been certain death to have at- 
tempted that drive of twelve miles on such a 
night. But the fury within me found a mad 
delight in the peril without, and I cursed my 
horses as I lashed them to their utmost speed. 

We had passed the town of Les Baux and 
were crossing the desolate boulder-strewn 
plain of La Crau. Already the windows of 
my castle gleamed red above us, when to the 
dangers I have named was added a new terror. 
Skulking behind the rocks were wolves, who 
came out into the moonlight after we had 
passed and watched us. The frightened 
horses galloped over the uneven ground, and 
my wife gave a cry as looking back she saw 
that the wolves were following. Three, four, 
six, eight — the pack grew in number as they 
gained upon us. Some evil spirit must have 
entered into me, for I taunted Barrale with 
her fear. 

"Are Pierre Vidal's boasts true then," I 
asked, "since you are so afraid to die?" 

"What hath he boasted?" she cried; and 



The Wolf of St. Francis 57 

then before I could answer — "Naught, for he 
hath naught to boast, and he is a true man, 
my Ugo." 

"Call me not yours," I said, "for if after 
you hear how he has made merry with our 
honour you still name him true man I will 
throw you to those wolves," and I told her 
what I had heard and how I had resolved upon 
his death. 

"You are mad," she persisted; "the man 
who told you this slander lied, for Pierre is 
true." 

"True lover," I thought was what she 
meant, and I caught her by the arm shouting, 
"Out you go, to the wolves!" 

"So be it," she answered, with her set face 
close to mine, "for I would rather trust their 
mercy than yours." 

Then an astounding thing happened. A 
bolt of lightning — for so I deemed it — fell from 
the sky, and not my wife but I was flung, 
stunned and blinded, into the snow. Pain- 
fully I raised myself, but not to my full 
height, for paralysis kept me upon my knees. 
I fancied at first that my back had been 
broken, but as I dragged myself as best I 
could along the road I discovered that the 
injury was only a strange cramping of the 



58 French Abbeys 

muscles of my legs and that I suffered no 
pain. 

The sleigh was still in sight. My wife had 
gained possession of the reins and had mas- 
tered the horses. They were floundering 
with such difficulty through the drifts that I 
soon overtook them, but at my approach they 
took new alarm, and when I sprang for the 
reins Barrale lashed at me desperately with 
the heavy whip. Persisting in my efforts and 
attempting to climb into the sleigh I saw 
something which frightened me more than 
the sharp stiletto with which she slashed at 
my clutching fingers. 

For there, across her feet, with white, up- 
turned face, lay the contorted body of a man. 
My own dead body I could have sworn, but 
that I felt myself keenly alive as I panted 
after them. 

Whose corpse could it be if not mine, 
and how did it happen that the face bore 
features which I recognised as my own, 
although convulsed by a malignant sneer? 

I dismissed the vision as a trick of my im- 
agination and bounded on, for I realised that 
I must gain my castle before I should be 
overtaken by the wolves. 

My wife had but driven within the court 



The Wolf of St Francis 59 

when I rang, but the porter who opened at 
my summons instantly let fall the portcullis 
in his affright. 

"There is a great grey wolf on the draw- 
bridge," I heard him cry, and the word went 
echoing through the castle, "Wolf! wolf!" 

My great deer-hound sprang from his kennel 
the hackles bristling on his spine, while he 
strained at his chain and gave tongue sav- 
agely. 

I looked about me- — there was no living 
creature in front of the castle save myself. 
"Down," I shouted; "Ho! there, Hubert, 
haul up the portcullis. It is I, your master." 

But my voice sounded hoarse and un- 
familiar even to my own ears, a crossbow 
projected from a meurtriere and its bolt hur- 
tled by me. The dog loved me well, why 
had he not recognised me? And why, good 
marksman as Hubert was, had he missed me 
at such easy range ? 

"It must be Barrale who set them upon 
me," I thought, and at that instant a wicket 
opened high in the wall and I heard her 
voice. "It is a loup-garou,'' she cried, "and 
only an arrow dipped in holy water can 
pierce his hide. See, though I hacked them 
with my knife, his paws are uninjured!" 



6o French Abbeys 

With that I looked at my hands. God help 
me! they were hands no longer, but a beast's 
paws with ugly claws protruding from the fur. 
The moon shone clear, and I could see my 
shadow upon the snow. It was plainly that 
of a wolf. The lightning-stroke had fallen 
not aimlessly. I was a man no longer, for my 
soul in its bestial rage had been withdrawn 
from my human body and given to a beast. 

I stormed at first against my punishment, 
but as relentless nights and days succeeded 
one another, I rebelled no more, and resigned 
myself to my fate. I even grew to take de- 
light in being the strongest and boldest wolf 
in the pack. Hunting had been my passion, 
and I now indulged it to the full. The other 
wolves followed me as their leader, and no 
deer were too swift or sheep dogs too savage 
to be overcome. Not only the flocks and 
herds suffered, but belated travellers were 
waylaid in the forest, and only a few cleanly 
gnawed bones and bloody trampled snow told 
of the tragedy. It is true that I took no part 
in these attacks. The thought of devouring 
human flesh was abhorrent to me, and I felt 
mortal enmity but for one man. But I made 
no effort to restrain the wolfish appetites of my 



The Wolf of St. Francis 6i 

retainers, and heard with a callous heart the 
distant cries of many an unfortunate wretch. 

There was in the pack a white wolf called 
" Lure," of the cunning and ferocity of a fiend, 
for such in truth he was. He told me that even 
as a man he had tempted me and that he had 
followed me into this antechamber of hell of 
his own free will, and challenged me to name 
another who for the sake of any ancient 
friendship would have done so much. My 
wife's name sprang to my lips, but the 
thought of Vidal kept me silent. 

Once not even death could have separated 
us, for neither could have lived without the 
other, but now she was doubtless rejoicing in 
her liberty. So I listened consentingly to the 
subtle arguments with which Lure encouraged 
the one vestige of humanity which I still re- 
tained, — ^my persistent desire for revenge. 

Since I was no longer a man, he persuaded 
me, I could not be judged by a man's code of 
morals, with any more justice than I could 
be blamed that I now coursed my game on 
all fours and ate my meat uncooked. 

God Himself, who had imposed upon me 
the form and nature of a savage animal, must 
with it have given me warrant for acting ac- 
cording to brutish instincts. 



62 French Abbeys 

If ever Pierre Vidal fell into my power I 
might tear him limb from limb, and who 
could impeach the soul or the memory of Ugo 
des Baux, who died on that night when my 
spirit passed into the wolf, and whose career 
up to that time had been one of honour? 

I accepted his sophisms with avidity, and 
patrolled with my pack the road to Aries, 
athirst to fasten my fangs on Vidal' s white 
throat. It was long before he came to Les 
Baux, but at length fate gave me my oppor- 
tunity. It was Lure who told me that he 
had slipped my vigilance and had gone to my 
castle mounted on a fine horse and tricked out 
in all the finery which he so loved to. sport. 
With eagerness I lay in wait for his return, 
but the instant that I caught a glimpse of his 
face I saw it so full of mortification and anger 
that I knew that whatever might have been 
the quest upon which he came, it had not 
prospered. 

"Curse her for a jilt ! " he cried, as he passed 
me, crouching, unseen, "a jilt, a jilt!" 

And my heart leaped so tumultuously as I 
thought that he had come to woo my widow, 
and that Barrale had sent him about his 
business, that I sprang in a half-hearted 
way, so missing my aim, and fixing my teeth 



The Wolf of St. Francis 63 

in his boot was beaten off with no taste of 
blood in my hot throat. 

But though I knew that Barrale had no 
love for him, neither had I pity, for my rage 
grew that he should have maligned her and 
have been the cause of our quarrel and of my 
humiliation. Therefore as, following at a 
distance, I saw him enter the gates of the 
Abbey of Montmajour, "Here," said I, "I 
will sit me down, nor will I quit the spot 
until I have had my will." 

Lure came to me as I stood sentinel, bring- 
ing to mind all the delights that I had lost, 
even the beauty and sweetness of my dear lady, 
until my heart was like to burst with thwarted 
desire, and as if this were not enough, he had 
another whip of the furies with which to lash 
me. 

"It is time that you knew," said he, "what 
Vidal has hitherto concealed from you, that 
his father was one of that gang of torturers 
and murderers by whom your father was 
done to death. If the thought that Vidal 
pretends to the love of your wife is not enough 
to rouse you, know that it is a filial duty to 
avenge a father's murder." 

I know not whether Lure spoke the truth, 
for fiends lie — 't is enough that I believed it 



64 French Abbeys 

then, and could I have entered the Abbey, 
even that holy place would have been no 
sanctuary to Pierre Vidal. 

One day while I lay thus in ambush there 
came another guest to Montmajour, even the 
beloved Francis of Assisi, who had come to 
Aries to attend a great council, and wearying 
of the multitudes who thronged him, sought 
retirement in this remote monastery. 

But even in the wilderness Francis could 
not resist the necessity laid upon him to 
"preach the gospel to every creature." He 
had already exhorted the birds and the fishes, 
and when his quick eye singled out the forms 
of wolves lurking near the Abbey, and the 
monks told him of the scourge which devas- 
tated the region, he caused a placard to be 
written and posted on the gates, inviting the 
wolves to assemble, on the following day, in a 
waste place outside the walls, and listen to a 
sermon which he would preach. 

It was Lure who spied the announcement 
and read it to us sneeringly. "Here is rare 
sport!" he cried. "Shall we listen to the 
monk, and making a dash all together, digest 
the preacher with his sermon?" 

"More like we shall be killed ourselves," 
said an old ranger of the forest. " It is a 



The Wolf of St. Francis 65 

trick to draw us from cover and fall upon 
us." 

"They cannot cut us off here," I replied, 
"the way is open on every hand. It is long 
since I have heard the voice of a human being 
save in agony, and never since my mother led 
me by the hand have I entered church to 
listen to a sermon. I am curious to hear 
what this man has to say to such malefactors 
as we are. Bold must he be to meet us thus, 
but he will find a congregation that will listen 
unmoved to his menaces." 

"Nay," said Lure, "I for one shall not 
come, for I dread holy water more than 
spears and firebrands. Know you not that 
if a drop touches a loup-garou the evil spirit 
which possesses him is forced to leave his body 
and show himself in his proper guise? No 
more roaming in the wild, free woods with 
merry companions, but chains and hell hence- 
forth for ever." 

"So be it," I growled. "No hell can be 
worse than this which I carry in my breast. 
As well be a devil as a beast." 

At the appointed time Francis issued fear- 
lessly from the portal of the Abbey, followed 
at a discreet distance by the bolder mem- 
bers of the community. The gentle monk 



66 French Abbeys 

advanced until he was within hearing of the 
pack, which squatted in a semicircle; and 
began his discourse in those tones of pene- 
trating sweetness which gave him such in- 
stant power over his human audiences. 

"My brave brothers of the wilderness," he 
said, "we have more in common than ye per- 
haps recognise. Long have I marvelled at 
your valour, and at your endurance of cold 
and of hunger, of weariness and of all other 
privations. With what resignation ye con- 
tent yourselves for habitation with a rocky 
cave as austere as the cell of some holy an- 
chorite. Ye know naught of the sinful lux- 
uries of men, but practise the vow of poverty 
as strictly as professed monks, wandering in 
your grey robes without purse or scrip, bare- 
footed, over the frozen earth, seeking your 
sustenance like humble mendicants, or if you 
snatch it like bandits, your sin is less than 
theirs, since it is one of ignorance. Of all our 
graver crimes — blasphemy, idolatry, heresy, 
slander, lying, foul speaking, cowardice, and 
treachery — ye are guiltless, and in your one 
fault, cruelty, ye are far surpassed by man. 

"My brother wolves, every living creature 
must seek its meat from God. I blame you 
not that ye eat not grass like the ox, since 



The Wolf of St. Francis 67 

this is not your nature ; but I come to bid you 
refrain from the flesh of men. Let your 
human brethren come and go in safety, and 
ye shall be fed from their superfluity. On 
such of you as will accept this compact I will 
bestow the blessed rosary. Wear it about 
your necks, and come without misgiving to 
the refectory of this Abbey and into the 
markets of Les Baux; no one shall do you 
harm, and flesh shall be given you until such 
time as a human being is again slain by one 
of your number." 

Francis held his rosaries aloft, but no wolf 
stirred to accept the pledge and safeguard. 
In my heart alone a dumb longing swelled in- 
tolerably, and grovelling to the ground I 
crept to his feet. 

The future saint laid his hand upon my 
head, and I could see that a great pity for my 
misery stirred his soul. 

"My brother," he said, as he placed the 
rosary about my neck, "our knowledge is the 
measure of our guilt. Whatsoever sins thou 
mayest in thy ignorance have committed — 
they are not imputed unto thee. Now that 
thou hast been enlightened, go and sin no 
more." 

But this was not the boon which I desired. 



68 French Abbeys 

Where were the wonder-working drops which 
would restore me to my lost estate ? 

"I sinned against light," I groaned, "but 
may not even such sin be forgiven? Impose 
any penance, but finally give me again the 
semblance of a man." 

Francis had turned to go, but my moans 
touched his heart, though he could not 
understand them. 

"My unhappy brother," he said gently, 
"I know not what thy trouble may be, but I 
shall pray for thee. I charge thee to watch 
over this brotherhood, protecting all who 
dwell beneath their roof from violence, and 
in as thou shewest mercy O wolf, shall mercy 
be shewn to thee." 

So speaking and having made the sign of 
the cross over me he departed. 

Lure also left me, uttering a demoniac 
howl, and though there was no change in my 
outward semblance there came over me such 
peace and joy as I had not felt since the 
night of my transformation, for I compre- 
hended dumbly that for even me there was 
hope. Therefore I set m.yself patiently to 
the task which Francis had imposed, becom- 
ing the watch -dog of the Monastery and walk- 




g 

u ^ 

1 t- 

O ;5 

I- O 




The Wolf of St. Francis 69 

ing beside the monks when they issued from 
the Abbey on their errands of necessity or 
mercy. Thus I became known at Les Baux 
as the Wolf of St. Francis, and my meat was 
given me even as the holy man had promised. 

And once it so happened, while I was wait- 
ing patiently for it at the door of a fiesher, 
there came a woman with a beautiful little 
girl about five years of age. They had heard 
of me, for the child came at once and fondled 
and caressed me, the woman not forbidding. 
The touch of the child's fingers thrilled me. 

"Good wolf, dear wolf," she said, "come 
with me to the chateau, and play with me, 
for it is very sad there, and my mamma does 
naught but weep and pray." 

"And does your mistress still persist in her 
strange infatuation?" asked the fiesher. 

"That she does," replied the woman, "for 
though gallants in plenty come to woo she will 
see no one, but him whom she hides within 
her bower, unworthy though he is of her great 
love. Moreover, though she will not admit 
it, the end is drawing near. The malady 
with which he is afflicted, which the leeches 
call lycanthropia (Note B) , increases. After 
each paroxysm he grows weaker, and she has 
gone to the Abbey of Montmajour to beg the 



70 French Abbeys 

blessed Francis to return with her and re- 
store him to health. He has performed such 
miracles, they say, but will he even at her 
prayer lengthen the life of one of whom the 
world were well rid ? ' ' 

Then I comprehended that the woman was 
not the child's mother but her nurse, and that 
the little maid was my own daughter, a 
babe in the cradle when last I saw her, and 
such love and longing constrained me that I 
followed her obediently. But what I should 
find and what I should do when I crossed the 
threshold of my home I knew not, for my 
mind misgave me. 

As we approached the castle I could see the 
lighted casement of my chamber, and pre- 
sently the form of my wife silhouetted darkly 
against its brightness. It passed swiftly, and 
I followed on unhindered over the draw- 
bridge and up the staircase until I stood in 
the antechamber. The nurse lifted the 
tapestry for the child to pass, and I saw that 
my wife was not alone. The gentle Francis 
was by her side, and they both bent over a 
man who lay as though asleep upon the 
couch. 

And even as I wondered who this man 
might be, Barrale kissed him, saying : "Waken, 




THE WOLF OF SAINT FRANCIS. 
From a painting by Luc Olivier Merson. 



The Wolf of St. Francis 71 

dearest, the blessed Francis has come to heal 
thee." 

Then I knew him for my worst enemy, and 
I gloated that he was delivered into my 
power. What should hinder me from rend- 
ing him as he lay helpless ? But as I crouched 
to spring the voice of Francis enthralled me 
again with its all -compelling charm, as he 
chanted his wondrous canticle : 

"Praised be Thou, my Lord, of them that do show 
Forgiveness unto others for love of Thee, and do 

endure 
Tribulation. Yea, blessed be they that 
Do endure in peace, for of Thee, O Thou most 
Highest, 

Shall they be crowned?" 

"Dost thou forgive?" he asked of the dying 
man, but it seemed to me that the question 
was put to me also; and "Nay," I cried, "it is 
more than I can do and live; but I forgive 
and die." 

And with the travail of that soul-birth my 
spirit was rent from the body of the beast and 
floated viewless above its carcass and into the 
adjoining room, where Francis chanted tri- 
umphantly : 

"Praised be Thou, O my Lord of Sister Death, the 



72 French Abbeys 

Death of the body, from whom no man Hving may 

Escape — 

And blessed be they that shall 

Walk according to Thy most holy will, for 

Unto them shall the second death do no hurt." 

But even in that supreme moment, when it 
seemed to me that my soul, forgiven even as 
it forgave, was taking its flight from earth, I 
turned for a last farewell toward my wife, as 
she, with an exceeding bitter cry — "He is 
dying! O spare him to me, merciful God," — 
flung herself beside the man upon the couch. 

Marvelling greatly, I gazed upon him. It 
was indeed my worst enemy who lay agonis- 
ing there, not Pierre Vidal, but my very self. 
The body of Ugo des Baux, from which my 
soul had been driven by the lightning's bolt, 
had lain bereft of reason and paralysed in 
living death for five years. And yet during 
all that time my Barrale had tended my poor 
semblance with unwavering devotion, hoping 
ever against hope that I would be given to 
her again, and swooning in anguish when 
freed from her long bondage. 

When I understood this devotion the 
felicity of heaven had not, so mucn attractive- 
ness for me as the yearning face of the woman 
pressed against my inanimate one, and my 



The Wolf of St Francis Tz 

spirit in its answering longing leapt back into 
the cold clay, and looked through human eyes 
into hers. 

This is my true confession made to Francis 
of Assisi, from whom I received blessed abso- 
lution; and written out and given sealed, as 
I have stated, into the hands of the Abbot of 
Montmajour what time I built him a strong 
tower and garrisoned it with archers, to take 
the place of the wolf guardian which the 
monks had lost, and to carry out the behest 
of Francis to keep watch and ward over the 
Abbey. 

It was not hard for me to forgive Pierre 
Vidal, now that I knew that Barrale had 
never loved him, and whether his father were 
indeed concerned in the death of mine, or that 
were a figment of my disordered imagination, 
surely he were in no wise accountable. In his 
retreat at Montmajour he had resolved to 
become a crusader, and he sailed with Richard 
of the Lion Heart for the Holy Land, and we 
saw him no more. 

I have told this story to no one else save my 
wife, for it is so marvellous that even she who 
knows full well that I am descended from the 
Babylonian king who suffered like penance 



74 French Abbeys 

(Note C) cannot believe but that it is a hal- 
lucination which haunted me what time I lay 
insane in my own castle, and she has begged 
me to keep it close, lest doubt as to my sanity 
might still prevail. So difficult is it for those 
unillumined to believe the most perfectly at- 
tested miracle. But Francis found it not in- 
credible, and he read to us (translating as he 
read into the vulgar tongue) the history of 
the metamorphosis of my far-away ancestor, 
how — 

"He was driven from the sons of men, and 
his heart was made like the beasts. His 
dwelling was with the wild, and his body was 
wet with the dew of heaven till his hairs were 
like eagle's feathers and his nails like claws." 

Like him also when "mine understanding 
returned unto me I blessed the Most High 
whose works are truth and whose ways judg- 
ment, and they who walk in pride He is able 
to abase." 




CHAPTER IV 

THE VISION OF SAINT BERNARD 

THIBAULT the Firebrand, doughty knight 
though he was, felt his knees knock to- 
gether with sudden fear as he stood without 
the door of his wife's oratory and heard her 
passionate ravings as she knelt before the 
image of the Crucified. 

Unscrupulous in most matters, his super- 
stitious soul had a horror of blasphemy, and 
he had never imagined that such words could 
be uttered in the presence of God, by even the 
most presumptuous sinner; how much more 
incredible to hear them from the lips of the 
wife whom he had thought all piety and 
gentleness. 

" Is it naught to Thee, O Christ!" she cried, 
"that this man tortures my heart, crucifies 
me with such agony as even Thou didst never 
suffer, in that I cannot bear it, that I cannot 

75 



76 French Abbeys 

bear it ? Slay him, O righteous God, take him 
from the world ere his cruelty shall have 
wrought the perdition of my reason and of 
my soul." 

Of whom was his wife speaking? Surely 
not of himself, for he had loved her beyond his 
own salvation. Before he had met her, under 
the preaching of the saintly Bernard, he had 
heard the divine call and had gone away 
almost persuaded to renounce the world for a 
religious life. Almost, and then he had seen 
her, and had answered the supreme question 
ringing in his ears: "What shall a man re- 
ceive in exchange for his soul ? ' ' with the as- 
sertion : "I will give my soul for thy love, my 
Andouille." 

They had wedded, and save when absent on 
some foray he had in his rough way devoted 
himself to her. Well she knew that she had 
no rival but his sword. 

After all, he was not cut out for a monk 
but a soldier, and he had often wished that he 
might do feudal service with his sword to his 
liege lord Christ in the same way that he 
held himself ready to follow his king. Alas ! 
Christ would not accept a divided heart ; and 
he had turned a deaf ear to conscience, only 
pacing the floor at night when he thought 



The Vision of Saint Bernard n 

his wife asleep, and answering its monitions 
with fierce imprecations and reassertions that 
though hell were the penalty yet would he not 
give her up. 

Why then was she not happy, and who was 
this man whom she besought God to destroy ? 
He questioned his own conduct if in any way 
he could unwittingly have grieved her, and 
thought himself innocent. True, in common 
with most barons of the time, he had exacted 
severe feudal service from his serfs, and had 
been not over-careful for their well-being. 
What were the griefs and miseries of these 
swine to him ? It vexed him that the gold he 
gave his lady for her personal pranking was so 
often spent for medicaments and clothing for 
these ungrateful clowns. The only rating he 
had ever given her was for cheapening her 
state in this way. He was not accounted 
hard-hearted or quarrelsome by his neighbours 
of like degree with himself. On the contrary, 
he loved to revel with them, and when they 
visited him not venison alone but costlier 
viands smoked for weeks upon his board, and 
the oldest wines of Champagne burst from 
their flasks like long imprisoned fountains, 
and danced and sang until the strongest heads 
reeled to the same giddy measure. What if 



■ 78 French Abbeys 

the jokes and tales grew too highly flavoured 
for my lady's ear? wine only made him more 
boisterously mirthful and uxorious. Even 
when deepest in his cups he never lifted his 
hand against her, but babbled of his devotion 
with maudlin tears when too drunk to swear. 
It was for her sake as much as his own, he told 
himself, that he had decided to serve the 
world instead of heaven, and she as well as he 
should have the best it had to offer. 

So he had lived for ten years a life of grossest 
self-indulgence, with no ambition worthy of a 
man to tempt him from the quicksand of de- 
terioration into which he had fallen. And all 
the while, in spite of Andouille's endeavours 
to rouse him from slpth, in spite of the pain 
in her pleading eyes, he had deluded himself 
with the idea that it was all for her sake and 
the world well lost. Then suddenly a change 
had been wrought in him, his better self awoke, 
and the life which he had hitherto led filled 
him with disgust. The change had been 
brought about by a number of causes con- 
verging and concentrating in the unexpected 
appearance upon the scene of the man who 
had once before so strongly influenced him, 
the all -persuasive Bernard. 

The first circumstance to rouse Thibault 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 79 

from his lethargy was the unpleasant realisa- 
tion that his reckless prodigality had so de- 
pleted his fortune that some means must be 
immediately sought for repairing it. Only 
one expedient occurred to him. His castle 
was but a little distance from the great high- 
way leading from Paris eastward to Lorraine, 
and just outside his hunting-park this road 
dipped into a lonely vale called the Valley of 
Wormwood. The valley broadened toward 
the east into marshy lands, whose pools the 
rising sun turned to blood, but the stream 
that spread itself here was confined higher up 
toward the west by a rocky gorge and brawled 
beneath a stone bridge defended by an an- 
cient tower. This rude castle Thibault's kins- 
man, the great Count Hugh of Champagne, 
had in time past leased to a bandit, who 
exacted toll from rich merchants and other 
travellers. It was reputed that he even 
robbed pilgrims setting out on their journey 
to the Holy Land, and that those who threat- 
ened to complain to the king found graves 
without headstones in the red marsh. Hugh 
de Champagne had heard rumours of the 
doings of his tenant, and upon his death the 
Count left the domain to the Abbey of Citeaux, 
hoping thus to assoil his soul from any blame 



8o French Abbeys 

for accepting as rental money wrongfully 
gained. 

The Cistercians had not hitherto chosen to 
take possession of their legacy, and the bandit 
had offered Thibault, who was the Count's 
executor, a large sum for permission to re- 
main undisturbed in the stronghold. This 
bribe Thibault had declined with a great 
show of indignation, visiting the tower with a 
troop of his men-at-arms and forcibly ejecting 
the brigand. At the same time he could not 
help noticing how admirably this toll-gate 
was situated for its purpose; and since then 
the idea had more than once crossed his mind 
that it would be easy to take the place of the 
unscrupulous tenant, and, with visor down 
and otherwise disguised, levy the same road- 
tariff, none suspecting that the tower had 
changed masters. 

Being hard pressed by a Jew of Metz for 
the return of borrowed moneys, and learning 
that his creditor was on his way to Paris for 
the purchase of goods and must pass through 
the Valley of Wormwood, he at length suc- 
cumbed to the temptation and sallied forth to 
waylay him.. 

It so happened that the robber, though dis- 
possessed, had returned to his lair, and when 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 8i 

Thibault entered the valley he heard a great 
fracas and saw the bandits descending upon 
a convoy. It was not, as they supposed, the 
train of some rich merchant, but a party of 
twelve monks, who, with a few serfs lead- 
ing mules laden with their poor effects, had 
been sent by the Abbot of Citeaux to take 
possession of their fief and to found a new 
monastery. 

Fortunately for Thibault's reputation, a 
comprehension of the situation was vouch- 
safed him through the outcries of the fleeing 
servants, and he arrived upon the scene in the 
character of a rescuer instead of that of a 
brigand. For the rest, nothing could have 
induced him to lay hands on the property of 
the Church, and when he recognised Bernard 
at the head of the httle party he thanked his 
guardian angel who had saved him from 
mortal sin. The bandit chief was speedily 
secured and a halter placed about his neck; 
but when Bernard interceded for the life of 
the wretch Thibault grudgingly placed the 
free end of the halter in the monk's hand. It 
irked him not to be allowed to show his zeal 
for holy Church by stringing up this mis- 
creant whose crime, his own conscience told 
him, he had by the merest chance escaped. 

6 



82 French Abbeys 

The malefactor thiis confided to the saint 
became one of the most devoted monks in the 
new Abbey of Clairvaux, which was founded 
in the bandit stronghold, and Bernard's com- 
ing proved a turning-point as well in the 
career of Thibault the Firebrand. Though he 
would not acknowledge the fact even to him- 
self, he had not been happy in the life of 
sensuality in which he had steeped himself. 
He was weary of inglorious ease, of gluttony, 
and of drink, and satiated by the very mo- 
notony of Andouille's affection. 

"God's death! it is the life of a stalled ox 
and not of a man," he had confided to a boon 
companion who was also sick of peace and 
spoiling for a good fight, "If only France 
were at war with some other nation, how 
gladly would I take the field!" 

"There is need enough for our arms," re- 
plied the other, "for the Saracens pollute the 
Holy City and harass pilgrims while our 
swords rust in their scabbards, and all the 
kings of Christendom, and even the Pope as 
well, look on with indifference. 

"The hearts of hundreds, nay thousands, of 
noble knights are swelling with indignation, 
but there will be no crusade, for only one man, 
the eloquent Bernard, can rouse the nations 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 83 

from their apathy, and he is lost to the world, 
having declared that he will never again ad- 
dress an assembly outside his own priory 
of Clair vaux." 

Andouille had overheard this conversation 
and others like it. The memory of the first 
glorious crusade led by Godfrey of Bouillon 
was fresh in all minds. Here was a cause 
worthy of high emprise, worthy of hardship 
and death. What calamity indeed was the 
risk of glorious death for Christ, compared 
with that death of the soul and the intellect 
into which her husband was daily slipping ? 

With all the zeal of an ardent believer and 
all the love of an anxious wife she endeav- 
oured to persuade her husband to join the 
little band of knights who were labouring to 
fan the flame of a crusade. What, she asked 
herself, could temporary absence do but make 
more intense the rapture of their reunion? 
Her husband was sick of her continual cod- 
dling. He would appreciate more her loving 
devoir after a season of hardship. 

She believed that the crusade could be put 
on foot without the agency of Bernard, whose 
pitiless aceticism had gained for him the 
name of " L^ terreur des meres et des jeunes 
femmes." 



84 French Abbeys 

They had reason to fear him, all loving 
women, for his irresistible influence had even 
been pitted against all that they held dearest, 
luring their sons and lovers from their homes 
to the cloister, poisoning their hearts with the 
terrible virus of his sublime fanaticism. And 
now by a strange dispensation of Providence 
her enemy had come to her door. Bernard 
had established himself in the robber castle, 
converting it into a priory, and its marshy 
valley into fruitful fields. 

Fortunately, as it seemed to Andouille, 
Bernard appeared to have renounced all in- 
terest in the outside world. As his priory re- 
quired less of his attention, he spent hours 
and even days together in a lonely cave, ab- 
sorbed in devotion, his soul almost ravished 
from his body in its contemplation of the 
bliss of heaven, to which he prayed that he 
might soon pass. 

In vain Thibault strove to interest him in 
the crusade. He would neither listen to him 
nor touch the food which he brought, and 
Thibault returned to his castle after each 
visit more and more saddened. 

"He will die," he said to his wife, "and the 
world has such need of him at this time. I 
told him this as the mouthpiece of my fellows. 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 85 

We must have Bernard to organise us, to 
plead for the crusade with king and emperor, 
to awaken popular enthusiasm as no one else 
can. Without him there will be no crusade, 
and Jerusalem will be given over to the in- 
fidel." 

The lady Andouille crept nearer to her hus- 
band and stroked his hand. 

"If Bernard should undertake this task of 
organising the knights," she asked, "and 
should institute a new order of chivalry, are 
you certain that the rules with which he would 
bind you would be divinely inspired?" 

"He would not accept the responsibility," 
Thibault replied, "unless he knew of a cer- 
tainty that he was the mouthpiece of God." 

"And if he believed that the rules of his 
own order were the only ones for knights as 
well as monks, and should impose upon you 
obedience and chastity, would you leave me 
for ever?" 

"We know not that he would frame such 
a code," Thibault replied evasively. "But 
whatsoever he commands I will obey." 

Andouille uttered a cry as one suddenly 
stabbed. "Nay, you do know that he would 
demand such renunciation, and you love me 
no longer." She flung her arms about her 



86 French Abbeys 

husband's neck, but he put her from him, 
saying coldly: 

"I would have become a monk but for you. 
Would you have me lose my soul utterly by 
refusing Christ this tardy service?" 

"Nay," she replied. "Lay your cause be- 
fore God, as I also will lay mine, and we will 
leave the result in His hands." 

Thibault had not been surprised that her 
woman's heart had rebelled at first at the 
thought of separation for the rest of their lives, 
but he had no idea of the intensity of her love 
until at the door of his wife's oratory he had 
overheard her wild weeping and wilder prayer : 

' ' O righteous God, take this man out of the 
world before he has desolated it. Remove 
him to the heaven which he is so impatient to 
enter. In Thy hands are life and death. 
Manifest thy judgments now, O great just 
God. Is it right that this man should in Thy 
name commit this monstrous crime? Strike 
him suddenly ere he has time to laden his soul 
with more suffering of the innocent." 

There was silence for a brief space as though 
the agonised suppliant were awaiting an 
answer. Then she seemed to have heard it 
through some inner sense, for, awed and 
stricken with surprise, she murmured: "Yea, 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 87 

Lord, I know Thou workest through human 
hands; but how can I be certain of Thy 
will?" 

Again there was silence, then broken cries 
of remonstrance. ' ' Nay, Lord, work through 
another This task is too great for me. I 
cannot do it." 

Thibault knew now that the man whom she 
so hated was Bernard, Could it be possible 
that her jealous adoration of her husband had 
so warped her reason that in her fear of losing 
him through Bernard's agency a murderous 
fanaticism had taken possession of her mind, 
and she believed that she had divine permis- 
sion to compass the monk's death? 

He regarded her with keen anxiety when 
she rejoined him, but she greeted him as 
tranquilly as though she had but come from 
singing her babe to rest instead of from one 
of those fierce agonies in which souls are born 
or die. 

"Thibault," she said, "if thou art so sure of 
the will of God, why dost thou not do it?" 

"What do you mean?" he stammered. 

"Have out a litter," she replied, "and 
bring Bernard hither. I myself will nurse him 
and prepare with mine own hands the food 
which his weakness demands." 



88 French Abbeys 

But Thibault was not reassured. What 
might not his wife be tempted to do or to 
leave undone to turn the crisis toward death 
when she had shown so plainly in which 
direction she wished the pendulum of fate to 
swing ? 

He had already written for a learned phy- 
sician who could care for Bernard in his own 
priory, but would the enthusiast submit him- 
self to a medical practitioner? 

Distracted by these questions he slept but 
little, until toward dawn, when his lady gave 
him a sleeping potion which did its work so 
thoroughly that it was high noon when he 
awaked. 

His first act after dressing was to seek the 
key of the postern gate leading into the Vale 
of Wormwood, but it was not in its accus- 
tomed place. He called his wife, but before 
he could question her he saw the key on her 
chatelaine. She changed colour as she handed 
it to him, admitting that she had taken it; 
having made a bowl of broth which she was 
about to send to Bernard. 

"It was a good thought," he said, regarding 
her keenly. "Give me the broth, and I will 
be your messenger." 

Her eyes fell, but she brought him the dish. 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 89 

A turmoil of apprehension rushed Hke a whirl- 
wind through his brain as he carried it out of 
the castle. His favourite hound leapt upon 
him as he entered the bailey, and he set the 
dish on the ground before it. Then, ashamed 
of his suspicions, or fearing to see them real- 
ised, he kicked the dog away, emptied the 
broth into the moat, and returned to the 
kitchen, telling the cook that he had stumbled 
and spilled the soup intended for Bernard. 
She refilled the tureen from the kettle in 
which his own breakfast was simmering, and 
he hurried to the hermitage, distracted by 
fears which he would not own. 

To his great surprise he found Bernard in 
an entirely different frame of mind. 

The enthusiast lay upon his couch, weak 
but perfectly sane. The light of exaltation 
still shone in his eyes, but it was subdued by 
a loving interest in all that concerned his 
friend, his brethren, the Church, and even the 
world at large. In short, Bernard had come 
back to this present world and to humanity. 
He pressed Thibault's hand and thanked him 
gratefully for his solicitude. 

"I have had a wonderful vision," he said, 
''The Madonna, in response to my unworthy 
invocation, has deigned to visit me. As I sat 



90 French Abbeys 

bowed over my writing-table, transcribing the 
City of God of Saint Augustine, I was ware of 
a sudden radiance, and a perfume as from the 
gardens of the blessed. I did not look up at 
once, for I was smitten with awe, but pre- 
sently a hand was laid upon the page on which 
I had been writing, a woman's hand, slender 
and white, and a voice of ineffable sweetness 
called me by name. 'Bernard, Bernard,' it 
said, 'the Master hath need of thee.' 

" ' In heaven?' I asked, for I had been look- 
ing for that call. 

"'Nay, on earth,' replied the voice; and, 
looking up, I saw a face of such divine beauty 
that though my astonished lips framed the 
question, 'Who art thou?' I knew before I 
heard her answer, 'The handmaid of the 
Lord,' that I was in the presence of the 
Madonna. 

' ' ' What wouldst thou have me to do ? ' I 
asked again, 'for it shall be unto me according 
to thy word.' 

"'Then rise, Bernard, rise and eat,' she 
commanded, placing before me a dish even 
such as thou bearest, and I obeyed her gentle 
mandate the while my glorious mistress dis- 
coursed further of the Lord's will to me-w^ard, 
telling me that I was called to rouse the na- 





-v^iini^^aiiiiillli^ 



The Vision of Saint Bernard. 

From the painting by Filippino Lippi. 
(B)' permission of V. Jacquier.) 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 91 

tions to a crusade for the recovery of the Holy 
Sepulchre. 

'"But I am too weak for such a task,' I 
objected. 

' ' ' And whose fault is it that thou art weak ? ' 
the vision asked. ' The spirit of God glows 
within thee like the flame in an alabaster 
lamp, but it feeds like that flame on physical 
nutriment. It flickers now, and will expire 
unless thou nourish thy lamp. God serves 
Himself in this world at the hands of human 
ministers. Such an one, a wise physician of 
the body. He sends to thee. Be not unbe- 
lieving or disobedient, but place thyself in all 
things under his commands until thy bodily 
health is mended. Then shall the flame of 
the spirit burn brightly and the task which 
God has for thee to do shall be fully revealed 
to thee.'" 

"It is the most sensible of all thy visions," 
commented Thibault, "and I have the more 
credence that it came from heaven in that it 
is utterly unlike the dreams of a disordered 
imagination which thou hast hitherto re- 
counted to me, nightmares of flends hounding 
thee on to self-murder. There is foreknow- 
ledge of events in it too which thou couldst 
not have imagined of thyself, for thy friend 



92 French Abbeys 

William of Champeaux is on the road charged 
by thy superior the Abbot of Citeanx to 
make thee sound in body and in mind. Eat, 
therefore, of this food, for it will give thee 
strength to wait his coming; it is a stew of 
venison which I myself killed but yesterday." 

Bernard obeyed without scruple. "Even 
such," he said, "was the flavour of the 
heavenly manna brought me by the Blessed 
Virgin." 

"How looked Our Lady?" asked Thibault. 

"Exceeding meek and fair," Bernard re- 
plied. "A mist tempered the glory of her 
features which otherwise I doubtless would 
not have been able to look upon, but a golden 
radiance was diffused through this mist, giv- 
ing it the semblance of a veil of saffron tissue. 
Even as she spoke to me, a light wind lifted 
this mist and wafted it through the open door 
of my cell over the tops of the trees and 
beyond my vision, and when I turned again 
toward the spot where my divine visitant had 
stood, she, too, had vanished from my sight." 

Thibault doubted not the reality of Ber- 
nard's vision. The ascetic submitted with 
docility to the regimen prescribed by his phy- 
sician, and his recovery seemed to all who 
had known his previous mental and physical 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 93 

condition nothing short of miraculous. Hardly 
was his health established before he was 
called to attend the Council of Troyes, sum- 
moned to debate upon the formation of the 
new order of the Knights of the Temple. 
His capacity for organisation now showed it- 
self as clearly as his persuasive eloquence, and 
at the unanimous request of the Council, as 
well as of the knights themselves, Bernard 
drafted the ordinances of the Templars. His 
heart was in the scheme, for his father had 
been a knight, and his boyish imagination had 
been fed with his tales of the exploits of 
Godfrey and of Tancred, told in all their 
freshness, for Bernard was but ten years of 
age when the knights returned from the vic- 
torious first crusade. Bernard believed that 
what had been so gallantly accomplished in his 
own lifetime could easily be re-enacted. With 
all his meekness there was something militant 
in his nature, a nature of many contrasts. 

No record has been kept of the wonderful 
extemporaneous address which moved thou- 
sands at the Abbey of Vezelay, and caused 
King Louis VH. and Queen Eleanor to receive 
the cross at his hands; or of hundreds of 
other sermons with which he convinced count- 
less multitudes, as he went about through 



94 French Abbeys 

France and England, German}^ and Italy, 
crying "God wills it," till, as Bernard himself 
wrote, "the cities and castles were deserted, 
and wives were made widows." 

Stem as the rule of Saint Benedict were 
the regulations which he imposed upon the 
Templars. 

But harder than poverty, than abject obe- 
dience, than privation, peril, and exile, was 
that mandate which tore husband from wife 
and from the prattling voices of little child- 
ren, making the love of man and woman and 
the pride and joy of fatherhood deadly sins. 

Bernard forbade the Templars to hold con- 
verse even with devout women, "because the 
Ancient Enemy hath by female society with- 
drawn many from the right path to Para- 
dise." 

And in the last chapter of his ordinances he 
prohibited them from offering even to their 
sisters and their mothers the kiss of affection, 
''ut omnium, mulierum. fugianUir oscula^ 

When Thibault read these rules his heart 
failed him, and he placed the paper in his 
wife's hands. "It shall be as thou wilt, 
Andouille. Even now it is not too late. 
Speak the word, and the knights shall go 
forth without me." 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 95 

"You love me then?" she cried, all her face 
transformed with sudden joy. 

"As I have always done, my Andouille, 
You shall choose for us, and if you will- 
God's death! what do I care for my soul? — all 
things shall be as they were." He held her 
close, and the intensity of his passion fright- 
ened her. 

" Nay, not as they were, not as they were. 
/ care for your soul, O my beloved. Bernard 
must know best, and I give you to God." 

Man -like he was not satisfied. "Is it so 
easy then to give me up ? " he asked. ' ' There 
was a time when my love was more to you 
than salvation. Let us speak truth to one 
another now since these be last words. I 
heard you, Andouille, praying God to take 
Bernard from the world, and you babbled 
something of being God's instrument. Truly 
I thought that love of me was tempting you 
to crime. What miracle has changed you? 
For you do not love me as then you did." 

"Not as then, but more. Suddenly, in the 
hour of which you speak, God let me see 
things for one moment clearly. I saw you 
through wine and wassail, and alas, through 
your passion for my poor beauty, growing 
daily more into the likeness of the beasts 



g6 French Abbeys 

which perish, your brain sodden, your con- 
science duUed, wilhng, in order to deck me 
with gewgaws, to oppress your people, and 
even to lead them to robbery. I saw that 
Bernard had come as God's angel, that none 
but he could save you, or the vast multitude 
of other knights who were leading the same 
lives ; and in that hour when I gave you up, 
and in this when I confirm the gift, I love you 
more than at my bridal, for I love your soul. 
Instead of being a menace to the life and work 
of Bernard I have saved both, though in so 
doing I knew what would come to pass. You 
have bidden me choose for us both, but you 
could not have loved me as you do now had 
I made the baser choice." 

"It is a miracle," he said, "such as the ap- 
pearance of the Madonna to Bernard: for, 
unless she moved you, Andouille, you could 
not speak as you do now, nor could I bear it." 

And a sublime exaltation bore her up, for 
she heard within her heart a still, small voice 
saying: "Though other miracles were none, 
this of turning a sinner into a saint has been 
wrought before thine eyes, and partly by thy 
means, — and this miracle shall not pass away." 

Thibault thought that he understood his 
wife (but how can a man fully understand a 



The Vision of Saint Bernard 97 

woman's devotion?). And he rode away, 
knowing that he should see his lady's face no 
more in this world. As he followed the wood- 
land path up the valley of Clairvaux to bid 
Bernard farewell, he saw fluttering from the 
topmost branch of a tree which sheltered the 
cave which the monk had made his hermitage 
a filmy veil of faded saffron gauze. He dis- 
engaged it with his lance, and recognising the 
initial A, wrought in the border not with silk 
but with a thread of golden hair, he covered 
it with kisses and wound it about his helm. 
It caught Bernard's attention, for the light 
shone through it and gave it the appearance 
of an aureole. 

"God gives thee the sign of sainthood, my 
son," said the mystic. "Either my eyes de- 
ceive me or I see above thy head a wreath of 
glorious effulgence such as streamed from Our 
Lady's features when she granted me the 
vision which I hold as seal and warrant of my 
mission. Go and bear thyself valiantly, for 
the favour of God is with thee." 

And Thibault received his blessing kneeling. 
Nor told he the holy man that the shimmering 
radiance was his wife's veil, nor where he had 
found it. 




CHAPTER V 
THE TAPESTRIES OF BOURGANEUF 

T^HE old Hospitaller writes, a.d. 1510: 
-^ None will think it strange that the 

old Commandery of Knights Hospitallers at 
Bourganeuf should boast as superb a series of 
tapestries as ever decked royal palace or 
grand cathedral, for the manufactory of 
Aubusson is close at hand, a manufactory 
owned by the great man who was the hon- 
oured head of our Order and who dearly loved 
its citadel at Bourganeuf. 

But the uninstructed observer who gazes at 
them in future days may well marvel at the 
subjects chosen for these beautiful hangings, 
for certes they are little suited to a religious 
house. They depict no history of holy writ 
nor legend of saints, no, nor. the glorious ex- 
ploits of the great Pierre d' Aubusson, nor of the 
Knights Hospitallers whom he led in so many 

98 




s < 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 99 

great actions. They show only a sweet -faced 
lady surrounded by flowers and beasties of 
the wood. I am an old man now, and when 
I am gone there will be no one who can tell the 
story aright, and so I have thought best to 
write it out lest fabrications arise discredit- 
able alike to our house and to the subject of 
these pictures. 

Without doubt she was an enchantress, the 
blond Agnes of Bourganeuf, for not only did 
all men who knew her become captive to her 
will, but animals, who are less susceptible 
than men to the charm of beauty, would 
follow her fascinated and forget while in her 
presence their savage instincts to prey upon 
one another. 

Her falcon would eat tam^ely from her hand, 
utterly disregarding the wild creatures, shy 
partridges, and little bunny rabbits which 
stole from their hidden haunts to frisk about 
her. Her mischievous monkey would cease 
his pranks at a single rebuking word, and her 
two pet dogs, who were consumed with jeal- 
ousy over her favours, and who quarrelled 
when out of her sight, would each submit in 
her presence, though with piteous whines, to 
seeing the other fondled. 

Of these dogs, Flocon de Neige, the Maltese 



loo French Abbeys 

terrier, had been brought her by the noble 
Pierre d'Aubtisson, Grand Master of the Chev- 
aUers Hospitallers de St. Jean de Jerusalem, 
on his last return to his native land. The 
Grand Master remembered her as a pretty 
child, fond of pets, and he was surprised to 
find her a beautiful girl of eighteen. She 
cared none the less for the pretty dog be- 
cause she had grown up to woman's estate, 
and she lavished the most affectionate care 
on the stupid, selfish, and greedy creature, 
combing its tangled mop of silky, white hair 
away from its weeping eyes, and allowing it 
to couch on the most luxurious of cushions 
and even on the train of her velvet robe. 

Her other favourite dog was a mouse- 
coloured Persian greyhound, only eighteen 
inches high, a shivering, fragile creature not 
made to support our vigorous climate, and 
cowardly as well as delicate, but very intelli- 
gent and devoted, so that while it trembled in 
every limb it would still bark violently when- 
ever an intruder appeared whom he thought a 
menace to his mistress. This dog's name was 
Saladin, and he wore a golden collar set with 
moonstones. He had been given to the fair 
Agnes by the unfortunate Prince Zizim — but 
of him more hereafter; suffice it now to say 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf loi 

that the two dogs divided her affection as their 
donors did her admiration and sympathy. 

It was Pierre d'Aubusson whom she and I 
most admired of any hving human being, and 
well we might, for never hero of antiquity or 
of troubadour's ballad was more courageous 
and heroic, no, nor saint nor martyr more 
impassioned in his worship of his Lord. His 
ancestral castle overhung the Creuse, not far 
from Bourganeuf, but nearer the city of Au- 
busson, of which his family had long been 
vicomtes. He was Due de la Feuillade also, 
and Senechal de la haute et basse Marche, but 
he early gave up these worldly honours to be- 
come a Knight Hospitaller to fight the Mus- 
sulmans, who at this time were in possession 
of Jerusalem and had recently taken Constan- 
tinople and destroyed the Byzantine Empire, 
and who now, under Mohammed H., threat- 
ened to stable their horses in the Vatican. 

Aubusson rose rapidly and was soon ap- 
pointed Grand Prior of Auvergne (his native 
province). This was the division of the 
Order which had its Commandery at Bour- 
ganeuf and made him my superior ; for I was 
serving my novitiate, hoping some day to be 
a Knight, but now employed in the script- 
orium, as I was clever with pen and pencil. 



I02 French Abbeys 

Our Grand Prior was not often with us; 
he was ever at the front when danger called, 
and, as I have said, these were troublous 
times. Whenever he made one of his rare 
visits to his Commandery he rode through 
the adjacent park to the chateau of his old 
friend the Vicomte de Montchenu, the father 
of the little Agnes, for it pleased him to see 
the child at play with her pets, and she loved 
to hear his stories of adventure in the far 
East. All of her dolls were clothed in mail, 
and wore the maltese cross upon their sur- 
coats. Her favourite bower was named Jeru- 
salem, and all evil beasts, — ^wolves, wild boars, 
serpents, and weasels, — ^were Turks. 

When d'Aubusson was not with us his head- 
quarters were at Rhodes, the outpost of 
Christianity, the sentinel island in the path 
of the conquering Turk. It was a critical time 
for our religion. Mohammed swept on vic- 
torious. Greece, Servia, Wallachia, and the 
Adriatic Islands surrendered to him. Before 
Rhodes alone he hesitated for a time, for 
d'Aubusson, who had now become Grand 
Master of his Order, not only held the citadel 
but swept the Mediterranean with his galleys, 
capturing and sinking Turkish vessels. Mo- 
hammed saw that it was a personal duel, and 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 103 

either he or the Grand Master must acknow- 
ledge himself conquered. That nest of hor- 
nets, Rhodes, must be burned out at any- 
cost, and in May, 1480, a Turkish army of one 
hundred thousand men began its siege. Two 
desperate assaults were made, during which 
the Grand Master received five wounds, but 
the infidels were obliged at last to abandon the 
siege, leaving nine thousand dead before the 
gates. 

Mohammed understood that he had received 
his "Thus far and no farther," and his death, 
which occurred in less than a year, was has- 
tened by his impotent rage. 

Pierre d'Aubusson received the congratula- 
tions of all Christendom, and was named by 
the Pope the Defender of Christianity and the 
Buckler of the Church. 

It was now that he returned as a conquering 
hero for his last visit to his home and to the 
Commandery Of Auvergne, and brought Agnes 
her lap-dog. He had forgotten how the pass- 
age of a few years can change a child to a 
woman, and the great warrior stood abashed 
before the beautiful girl. But she received 
his gift with charming grace and named the 
bundle of soft, white hair Flocon de Neige, 
and Flocon and the Grand Master, looking into 



I04 French Abbeys 

her gentle eyes, were both from that moment 
her devoted slaves. 

The Grand Master remained longer at 
Bourganeuf than on any previous visit. He 
had much to do, for he was planning wise 
ordinances to improve the organisation of 
the Hospitallers, its exterior diplomacy, its 
internal rule — the securing of great men 
for its officers and the strengthening of its 
finances and its power. This was but the 
means for a grand end, which he had had at 
heart all his life, the stirring up of the Euro- 
pean powers to another crusade for the rescue 
to the Holy Sepulchre. 

He was in correspondence with the German 
Emperor, with the Pope, with the King of 
Hungary, and with the King of England. 
His absorbing dream, for which he had la- 
boured night and day, was a great Christian 
League to rid the Holy Land of the Mussul- 
man. But now even as he explained it to 
the fair Agnes and her sensitive mind was 
thrilled by his high ambition, this dream be- 
came vague and shadowy, and all his plans 
seemed chimerical and the guerdon not worth 
the labour; so potent even over a man past 
the prime of life is the fascination of a woman's 
face. So their mutual influence interacted 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 105 

each upon the other, and while Agnes Hved in 
phantasy, longing ever to help him organise 
the crusade, in proportion as her enthusiasm 
kindled his own waned, and he even contem- 
plated in his secret heart retiring from his 
Order and petitioning the Pope to release him 
from his vow of celibacy. He made restora- 
tions in his ancient castle, long uninhabited, 
and ordered a new set of tapestries made for 
its great hall at the manufactory of Aubusson. 
This manufactory had been founded years 
before by a company of artisans attracted to 
Aubusson by the woollen-yarn industry, for 
half the men of Auvergne were shepherds, and 
their wives spun the wool which was dyed in 
Aubusson. The dyers were descendants of 
certain Saracens who took refuge in these 
rocky gorges after their rout by Charles 
Martel at the battle of Tours, and were pos- 
sessed of a valuable secret, that of producing 
the Tyrian purple and other colours known 
only to the rug-makers of the Orient. 

Pierre d' Aubusson interested himself in the 
tapestry works of his native town and detailed 
me, who had hitherto devoted myself to the 
illumination of missals, to make the designs 
for the tapestries. Instead of desiring me to 
celebrate his own glorious deeds at Rhodes 



io6 French Abbeys 

he bade me depict the fair Agnes engaged in 
her favourite occupations, playing the organ, 
training her falcon, walking in the park, and 
surrounded always by her little friends the 
beasties of the wood. 

It was necessary in order that I should have 
opportunity to study my subject, that Agnes 
should sit for my sketches, but she had no 
voice in gainsaying or permitting, for d'Au- 
busson had her father's consent. He was a 
shrewd man who divined what thoughts were 
fermenting in the mind of the Grand Master. 

He gave me very few limitations or sugges- 
tions other than that each of the tapestries 
should display, as heraldic supporters, his 
own emblem, a huts son, or thicket of thorny 
holly, and a blossoming orange tree typical of 
the fair Agnes, connected by his own motto, 
''Inter spinas floret''' ("I blossom among 
thorns"). The naturalistic picture of Agnes 
and her pets was also in each case to be 
framed by heraldic beasts from their respec- 
tive crests used as supporters — his great lion 
and her white unicorn, a fabulous beast, the 
emblem of purity. 

"These creatures shall hold standards," he 
explained, "from which shall float long band- 
eroles to be embroidered after the tapestries 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 107 

are finished with whatever device the fair 
Agnes shall herself designate, for, though she 
is ignorant of my intention, I plan that the 
tapestries shall be my gift to her upon her 
wedding day." 

It was while the private affairs of d'Au- 
busson were in this state, that an event oc- 
curred at Rhodes which made necessary the 
presence of the Grand Master, and he most 
unwillingly hastened away. The Sultan Mo- 
hammed in dying had left his kingdom di- 
vided by the rival pretensions of his two sons, 
Bajazet and Djim, or as our French chronicles 
designate the younger, Zizim. 

Bajazet had the support of the Janizaries, 
and had been acknowledged Sultan at Con- 
stantinople, but Zizim, who was the son of an 
ambitious Turcoman Princess, gathered to- 
gether the wild hordes of Asia and attacked 
his brother in several unsuccessful battles. 
After many hairbreadth escapes he had ac- 
tually sought an asylum at Rhodes — promis- 
ing the Hospitallers many favours, such as 
permission of pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the 
release of any of their Order who were prison- 
ers, if they would sustain his cause. 

Pierre d'Aubusson saw at once what a 
valuable ally Zizim might be made, and only 



io8 French Abbeys 

paused at Rome for a conference with the 
Pope in regard to his cherished plan of a cru- 
sade, in his hurried return to Rhodes. This 
conference, however, opened his eyes to the 
real character of Alexander Borgia, than 
whom no greater monster of iniquity ever 
lived. The Pope admitted that he was in 
correspondence with Bajazet, who was willing 
to pay an immense annual stipend if he would 
either kill his brother Zizim or keep him out 
of the Orient. 

The scheme of the Universal League of all 
Christendom for the conducting of a crusade 
did not in the least appeal to the Pope, and 
d'Aubusson saw that he could count on no 
encouragement from him. He also under- 
stood that His Holiness (in this case most 
falsely so named) would, if possible, compass 
the death of poor Zizim, and all the Grand 
Master's instincts of honour and hospitality 
bade him protect the guest who had trusted 
himself in his power. 

At Rhodes he found the young Moham- 
medan Prince full of delusions of what he 
might accomplish if only the Chevaliers of 
the Hospital would aid him, but not yet so 
crushed in spirit as to be willing to grant what 
d'Aubusson demanded — the withdrawal of all 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 109 

Mohammedans and the re-estabUshment of a 
Christian kingdom in Jerusalem. Anything 
but that. Pilgrims might safely go and 
come and visit the Holy Sepulchre, but d'Au- 
busson must understand that Jerusalem was 
also to the Mohammedan a sacred city, that 
the Mosque of Omar, erected on the site of 
Solomon's Temple, was for them a shrine of 
pilgrimage second only to Mecca. If the 
Hospitallers would help him, well and good. 
If not, he demanded haughtily to be escorted 
to the King of Hungary, who would be glad 
of a league with the Turcomans to keep the Ot- 
toman Turks from encroaching on his empire. 

While these interviews were being held 
with Zizim, d'Aubusson received a communi- 
cation from the Pope informing him that 
Bajazet was about to collect all his forces and 
lay siege to Rhodes to obtain possession of 
his brother, and that the Pope, desirous of 
preserving peace and not meddling with 
quarrels which did not concern him, com- 
manded the Grand Master to deliver over 
Zizim to his brother's emissaries. 

D'Aubusson saw that Bajazet had finally 
offered Borgia a sufficient bribe, and that 
between the two he could no longer keep 
Zizim in safety at Rhodes. He accordingly 



no French Abbeys 

resolved to despatch him to a place of safety 
at a sufficient distance from both Bajazet 
and the Pope, the Commandery of Auvergne, 
where, under his trusty Knights Hospitallers, 
he could be guarded in secret until he could 
bring him forward to aid in his cherished 
crusade. 

In carrying out this scheme he employed 
more ruse than could have been antici- 
pated from a man of his character. He 
feigned to accede to Zizim's request to be 
conducted to the King of Hungary, and sent 
him away under the escort of a troop of 
knights whose commander had sealed orders 
to take the way to Auvergne at the parting 
of the two routes. He was able to make the 
Pope believe for a time that Zizim had set out 
before the receipt of the papal orders but 
would undoubtedly be captured by his brother, 
and Bajazet himself sent an army to scour 
the roads to Hungary. 

To Agnes he wrote of the coming of this 
prisoner guest, begging her to entertain him, 
for he had commanded that such liberties 
should be granted him as were compatible 
with his safe-keeping, and to persuade him if 
possible to consent to d'Aubusson's terms for 
his liberation. 




PIERRE D'AUBUSSON. 




THE TOWER OF ZIZIM. 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 1 1 1 

No request could have given her greater 
pleasure. To aid d'Aubusson in organising 
a crusade h id become the absorbing passion 
of her life. Her father presently visited 
Zizim and brought him an invitation to hunt 
in his park and to take refreshment at his 
castle. Certain knights were always told off 
to accompany him upon the hunt, to guard 
against his escape, but frequently they left 
him at the gate of the chateau where I was 
making the preparatory studies for the tapes- 
try designs, and had also orders from the sub- 
prior to hold our prisoner in strict surveillance. 

The Prince was young and strikingly 
handsome, of aristocratic manners and a cul- 
tivated mind. He spoke half a dozen lan- 
guages fluently, and his French had only a 
slight accent which rendered it all the more 
fascinating. He was a poet not only in his 
native tongue, but could handle all the difficult 
metres of our troubadours, and was no mean 
musician as well. 

He was impressed at once by the loveliness 
of the fair Agnes, but his dark eyes could 
shoot fire as well as languish, and his melan- 
choly smile changed ever to a sinister sneer 
on the mention of the name of Pierre d'Au- 
busson. He believed the Grand Master to be 



112 French Abbeys 

his mortal enemy, and could not forgive him 
that he had convoyed him through deception 
and force to this distant prison. 

Agnes soon saw that it would be a difficult, 
perhaps an impossible, task to make him 
listen to any terms proposed by her friend. 
The more she praised d'Aubusson the more 
the prince sulked, for, while he was fast be- 
coming enamoured of the Lady Agnes, the 
further he progressed upon that road, the 
more he hated the Grand Master, whom he 
fancied his rival. 

He wrote triolets in her honour and sang 
them to his own accompaniment upon the 
lute, and was never tired of watching her feed 
and train her pets, giving her his own little 
greyhound, Saladin, which he had brought 
with him from Persia. I remember how 
beautifully she was gowned at their first meet- 
ing, for I painted the dress, a violet velvet 
embroidered in lighter shades of mauve and 
faced with cloth of gold. A heavy chain of 
gold was roped about her shoulders. The 
corsage of the dress was cut square, but her 
neck was covered with an elaborate necklace 
of amethysts, and she wore a band of ame- 
thysts coronet -wise about her hair from 
which depended a veil broidered with pearls. 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 113 

Zizim saw that she was fond of gems, and he 
sent her an aigrette of white herons' plumes 
set with diamonds. The Lady Agnes said it 
was Hke a fountain, and she wore it at his 
next visit in her hair. I remember that on 
that day her dress was of green brocade with 
long velvet sleeves, and that she had her 
organ carried into the garden and played upon 
it like another Saint Cecilia, while her maid 
Amore worked the bellows. It was a charm- 
ing spot, this garden, carpeted thick and soft 
with violets and pink-fingered daisies and 
primroses, and the birds sang in the holly 
thickets as though to drown her playing, and 
the little beasties crept nearer, fascinated by 
her singing. 

The Prince's passion grew apace and there 
came a day when he could refuse her nothing. 
Jerusalem should acknowledge the claim of 
the King of France as its sovereign. If only 
Agnes would act as the French King's deputy 
in the Holy City and become Zizim 's Queen 
Consort, his only wife and Sultana, he would 
submit to the Grand Master's hard conditions, 
and they would betake themselves to Jeru- 
salem together, she to worship with her fellow- 
Christians at the Sepulchre, he at the Temple, 
the same God under different names. 



114 French Abbeys 

To do her justice, Agnes had never thought 
of this outcome of her mediation as possible. 
Her nature was too pure for coquetry or pas- 
sion, and all the love of which she was capable, 
a mystical, unworldly hero-worship, was given 
to d'Aubusson. She was frightened by the 
vehemence of her lover and for several days 
denied him her presence, while she pondered 
on the strangeness of the situation. Was she 
capable of making this sacrifice for d'Aubus- 
son's sake? If he were only at Bourganeuf 
to give the decisive word in this great crisis of 
her life! And the word came in a letter 
brought from the Grand Master by a returning 
Hospitaller. It was a very surprising letter 
to the Lady Agnes, and it wrought a very 
different effect from that which the writer 
desired — for d'Aubusson wrote that in deep 
discouragement over the lack of interest of 
the Pope and of the King of France in the 
crusade, as well as on account of Zizim's ob- 
duracy in refusing to rally his followers in 
Palestine, he was on the point of giving up the 
enterprise, and of retiring a disappointed man 
from the Order of Knights Hospitallers. It 
remained for her to give the casting vote, for 
if she would accept the love of a man twice her 
own age, a love which had grown since her 




,"*<<»!< A*^i J^^, ' 



THE TONES OF THE ORGAN CHARMED THE BEASTIES OF THE WOOD. 
By permission of Paul Robert. 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 115 

earliest infancy, he would count all other glory 
well lost and would demand the absolution of 
his vow of celibacy and devote the remainder 
of his life to her, and her alone. 

The fair Agnes was as startled by this 
revelation of the love of the Grand Master as 
she had been by that of the young Prince. 
She had not imagined her hero subject to the 
ordinary frailties of human nature, but be- 
lieved him a demigod or saint. She now 
blamed herself for unwittingly tempting him 
from the path of duty, for lighting this pas- 
sion, which had burned in concealment for so 
many years, and was now breaking out to 
wreck his high career and brand him in his- 
tory as renegade to his vows. 

It must not be. She would save him from 
this unworthy act, even at the expense of her 
own immolation. Her father had recently 
died, leaving her mistress of her own actions 
and of a considerable fortune. She imme- 
diately wrote d'Aubusson humbly but firmly 
declining his proposals, and informed him in 
the same letter of her betrothal to Prince 
Zizim, who had consented to his terms and 
would ally his adherents to the Hospitallers if 
permitted to return to the Holy Land. She 
added that she was about to pay a visit to the 



ii6 French Abbeys 

French Court and hoped to influence the 
King to take the cross. 

Good King Rene, titular King of Naples, 
Sicily, and Jerusalem, had recently died in 
Provence without male heirs, and the terri- 
torial rights of the House of Anjou had lapsed 
to the King of France, the young Charles VIII. 
He was a weak prince, but he had married 
Anne de Bretagne, a princess of great religious 
zeal as well as of ambition and spirit. The 
Lady Agnes was not over-sanguine in her 
hope that the Queen would influence her 
doting husband to undertake this quest, so 
much to his worldly as well as to his spiritual 
advantage. 

The brave lady at once repaired to the 
Court at Amboise, making her camp each 
night in a magnificent pavilion of cloth of 
gold, which she had prepared for her wedding 
journey with the crusading army. Prince 
Zizim had sent her a casket of jewels as his 
betrothal gift, and she would have me paint 
her standing in the door of her pavilion re- 
ceiving this offering. It was the last of my 
designs for the series of tapestries. The 
Grand Master had written her that he had all 
along purposed these tapestries as his wedding 
present to her; and I told her how he had 



■'* T^^-i 



The Gift of Jewels. 

From the tapestry in tl,ie Cluny Museum. 
(By permission of Paul Robert.) 



ax C L to ID-Q 

^T,rll r.~i each 



th of 
iding 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 1 1 7 

ordained that she should choose the device 
to be wrought upon the banners borne by the 
heraldic lion and unicorn. He had hoped, 
doubtless, that she would choose his ' ' huisson 
of holly," but she elected instead for Zizim's 
coat of arms three golden crescents upon a 
vermilion field, and the tapestries were so 
woven at the Grand Master's manufactory at 
Aubusson. They were afterward hung upon 
the walls of her castle at Bourganeuf, where 
she lived for many years beloved and pitied 
by all and, dying, she left them to the Com- 
mandery, where doubtless in future days 
people will wonder at them if so be this writ- 
ing is lost. She was never wedded, either 
to Pierre d' Aubusson or to Prince Zizim, for 
while she was at Amboise — -where she suc- 
ceeded in firing the enthusiasm of Anne de 
Bretagne and through her of King Charles — 
there arrived at Bourganeuf a legate from 
Pope Alexander Borgia who demanded of the 
sub-prior of the Commandery the person of 
Prince Zizim; and the sub-prior, having less 
reason than d' Aubusson to suspect the mo- 
tives of His Holiness the Pope, or less courage 
to withstand his authority, delivered up that 
unfortunate young man, sending him to Rome 
under an escort of knights. 



ii8 French Abbeys 

Great was the grief, consternation, and 
anger, not alone of the fair Agnes and of 
Pierre d'Aubusson, but of King Charles as 
well. That young monarch showed more 
spirit than had been expected of him, for he 
saw through the perfidy of the Pope, who was 
also in league with the Spanish pretender to 
the throne of Naples, and Charles straightway 
gathered together his army and cavalcaded 
through Italy, taking Naples very easily, and, 
from that city, dictating terms to the Holy 
Father. 

Alexander dared not refuse the King's de- 
mand that Zizim should be given up to him, 
for had he done so Charles would not have 
hesitated to batter down the Vatican about 
his ears; but the Sultan Bajazet had prom- 
ised to do the same thing if he set his brother 
at liberty, a sore dilemma one might have 
thought for the Pope, though His Holiness 
was clever enough to satisfy both the de- 
mands of the King of France and of the 
Sultan. Zizim was delivered to Charles, but 
in a dying condition. Those who carried 
his litter brought it to the pavilion of his 
loved lady, who had followed the King to 
Italy to meet her bridegroom. He laid his 
head upon her bosom and died — for the 



The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 119 

stirrup-cup which the Pope had given had 
been charged with the poison of the Borgias, 
for which no leech in Christendom, no, nor the 
Borgias themselves, knew any remedy. 

Of the Grand Master of our Order all the 
world knows how he persisted in his great 
enterprise, but failed through dissensions 
among his followers, and that he died at last 
at Rhodes — of a broken heart, as it was said, 
because of that failure, but only I who brought 
him the news that the Lady Agnes had died 
before him knew that he murmured: 

"She will reconsider her choice when she 
chooses between us again — in Paradise." 

(See Note A.) 




CHAPTER VI 

INTRA MUROS 
OR, THE STORY OF A RED BOX 

FOREWORD 

OTRONGEST of fortresses, most militant 
^ in aspect of all the cities of France, is 
the ancient town of Carcassonne. 

Thanks to the restoration of VioUet le Due, 
we see it to-day as it existed in mediaeval 
times. Its very site, a promontory rising 
abruptly from the plain, is a natural strong- 
hold, and its double row of encircling walls 
sentinelled by forty-eight towers give the im- 
pression that all the castles of France have 
made it their rendezvous, trundling into 
Languedoc and forming about the citadel 
in hollow square to guard it from attack. 
Only to treachery or starvation have those 
impregnable defences surrendered. Strong to 



' 1 




WALLS OF CARCASSONNE. 
By permission of Neurdein Freres. 



The Red Box 121 

repel and strong to hold, the massive walls 
could fold their citizens in safe embrace and 
could be cruel beyond belief, for they formed 
at their strongest angle the prisons of the In- 
quisition. Terrible tragedies have been en- 
acted within their dungeons, crimes proved 
by the evidence of charred bones, heavy 
manacles, frightful oubliettes, and ghastly in- 
struments of torture, and still more conclu- 
sively by the records of the tribunal itself. 
But of all the lingering agonies devised with 
such inhuman ingenuity there is none so 
fiendishly cruel as that hinted at by certain 
niches or alcoves in the thickness of these 
Cyclopean walls, which tell of death by em- 
murement or walling up alive; and that this 
was a common punishment the number of 
these living tombs still testify. 

But there were high lights in contrast to 
the darkest darks even in this gloomy picture. 
It has been the error of Protestants to believe 
that Roman Catholics universally endorsed 
the atrocities of the Inquisition, that heretics 
were invariably martyrs and Romanists 
always cruel. We cry too thoughtlessly: 

" Oh, ay, the Monks, the Monks, they did the mischief; 
Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 
Of a most gross and superstitious age. 



122 French Abbeys 

May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest 
And scattered all these pestilential vapours." 

The true story, too little known, of Bernard 
Dehcieux, a fervently orthodox Franciscan 
monk, who fought a fight, in which he had 
nothing to gain and ah to lose, simply for the 
love of humanity, may convince us that in 
any contest the heroes are not all upon one 
side. 

THE RED BOX 

I . 

IN WHICH THE RED BOX MAKES ITS APPEARANCE 

Early in the spring of the year 1302 an 
itinerant merchant in Oriental garb climbed 
with his pack-mules the steep streets of Albi. 
He had perfumes from Constantinople, with 
silks and goldsmithery of Italy, and other 
novelties to tempt the ladies, and trinkets 
not alone for them, but damascened weapons 
and tobacco for the men; and wise in his 
generation the pedlar made straight for the 
episcopal palace to tender the first choice of 
his wares to Monseigneur the Bishop of Albi. 

This dignitary was notorious for his world- 
liness and love of luxury, but he was also 
miserly, and he haggled over the prices of the 



The Red Box 123 

commodities which his soul coveted. His 
eyes, half closed by heavy lids and protuberant 
cheeks, rested greedily on the contents of a 
red lacquer box, — a rope of pearls of unusual 
size and beauty. 

"Your demands are most extortionate," 
said the Bishop, as his fingers caressed the 
lustrous, perfect spheres with more of devo- 
tion than they had ever touched the beads 
of a rosary. ' ' None but a thievish Jew would 
ask so unchristian a price." 

The Inquisitor for Languedoc, Foulques de 
Saint Georges, who was visiting Albi on busi- 
ness connected with the Holy Office, pricked 
his ear at the word Jew, and looked up from 
the lists of suspected persons which had been 
given him by the Bishop. 

"I am no Hebrew," replied the merchant; 
"I hate the race of Israel as do the Christians, 
and I come to your country under the safe- 
guard of your Pope." 

"Let me see your credentials," commanded 
the Inquisitor, but he returned them with a 
scowl. "They are genuine, the man is duly 
accredited. I know the signature of the 
secretary of His Holiness." 

"In that case you are free to go as you 
came," said the Bishop; "but you may carry 



124 French Abbeys 

your pearls with you, and you need not return 
unless you abate your price." 

"One moment, your Grace. The casket 
contains other small matters which may in- 
terest your lordship. See, it has a false bot- 
tom," and tossing the pearls carelessly aside, 
the merchant showed a layer of bon-bons 
fitted snugly beneath a slide. 

* ' What child's play is this ? ' ' asked Foulques 
de Saint Georges, who had not returned to his 
study of the lists. 

"They be tablets of bitter almonds," re- 
plied the pedlar steadily. "If your lordship 
will try the efficacy of but one, you will not 
complain of their insignificance, for the 
paralysis which will instantly seize your 
eloquency's tongue will in two minutes more 
still your beneficent heart." 

The florid face of the Bishop turned to the 
colour of lead, but Foulques de Saint Georges 
exclaimed cheerfully, ' ' Your little comfits in- 
terest me ; what is their price apart from the 
bauble pearls?" 

"They are inseparable, your worship. I 
cannot sell one without the other." 

"Then get you gone," commanded the 
Bishop, "for I wish none of that deviltry." 

The merchant bowed and took his leave. 



The Red Box 125 

"He will come again," chuckled the prelate, 
"for there is no one in Albi who will pay his 
price. What were you asking me when he 
interrupted us ? The Garcias ? Yes, they are 
very rich. There are but the two brothers, 
and they are my next neighbours. Their 
family have lived in yonder old palace of the 
Viscounts ever since the first of the name 
came hither from Spain. They are good 
Catholics, more is the pity, for their estate 
would enlarge my own very prettily. 

"The elder, Raymond, I am to marry to- 
morrow, to the prettiest girl in all Albi. 'T is 
a sweet youth, Raymond, and a generous; he 
has sent me a noble wedding -fee. 'T is a pity 
that his brother Amauld will not see the cere- 
mony. He left Albi suddenly; some say he 
desired the girl himself, and could not bear to 
see her given to his brother, dearly though he 
loves him. 'Twaddle' did you say? Pray 
what do you know about it ? " 

"More than your Grace, apparently," 
Foulques replied. "I have private informa- 
tion from the King's confessor that Amauld 
Garcia is in Paris intriguing with his Majesty 
for my ruin. See, I have marked his name 
with red. It matters not that he is not now 
in Albi. I will give him more rope that he 



126 French Abbeys 

may hang himself. My friend writes that I 
must be wary, for he is thick with the King, 
who will protect him ; but I can torture him 
through his brother, and drive him to commit 
rash acts, and meantime can assure your 
Grace that the finest pearls in Languedoc will 
be in your possession on the morrow." 

Foulques de Saint Georges took a strange 
way to bring about his prediction, for he went 
immediately from the Bishop's residence to 
the inn, and finding there the Oriental, ad- 
vised him to offer the red box and its contents 
to Raymond Garcia. 

"The man is to be married to-morrow," he 
explained; "he is very rich, and insane with 
love; he will stick at no price." 

The merchant returned shortly to thank 
him. 

"Did you explain to him the properties of 
the spiced comfits?" asked Inquisitor Foul- 
ques, his eyes shining with satisfaction. 

"Yes, your lordship, but the man would 
none of them, calling them devil's dirt." 

' ' Then they are left on your hands ? ' ' mused 
the Inquisitor, his expression of pleasure 
changing to one of anger. 

"Yes, your worship, unless you will take 
them. " 



The Red Box 127 

"That I will, rascal; know you not that it 
is against the law to vend poisons thus ? Give 
me the bon-bons and get you gone, thanking 
your stars that you have saved yourself so 
easily." 

The pedlar made haste to follow the advice 
thus given; and now the Inquisitor retraced 
his steps to the Bishop's palace, for he was to 
dine with the prelate. 

At table Foulques de Saint Georges casually 
mentioned his meeting with the merchant and 
reported the purchase of the pearls by the 
expectant bridegroom, but he said nothing of 
the little transaction concerning the comfits 
of bitter almonds. 

The Bishop was inconsolable. "Why did 
I not buy those pearls ! " he cried. "After all, 
the price was not extortionate." 

"I see no occasion for such immoderate 
grief," replied the Inquisitor. "Raymond 
Garcia will gladly relinquish them when he 
knows that they are desired by so eminent and 
powerful a personage as the Bishop of Albi." 

"I doubt it," replied the Bishop. "Ray- 
mond hath bought them for his bride, and he 
will not give them up." 

"Why ask his consent, when it is in your 
power to seize them?" 



128 French Abbeys 

"You mean that I may demand the red 
box on the pretext that we know that Garcia 
has hidden poison therein? The circum- 
stantial evidence will be irrefutable." 

"I had thought of that," replied the In- 
quisitor, and his hand caressed softly the 
packet of bon-bons in his bosom. "But 
Raymond Garcia may have removed the 
comfits." 

"No matter, I can still swear that I saw 
them there ; and the merchant can be found, 
who will add his testimony." 

"Yours is sufficient," replied Foulques de 
Saint Georges hastily. "Yours and mine. 
Besides this matter of the poison is really 
only a minor detail. Heresy, heresy is the 
crime which will put him most surely in our 
power." 

' ' But I have told you that Raymond Garcia 
is no heretic." 

"My dear friend," said the Inquisitor, 
"have you forgotten that half of the pro- 
perty of condemned heretics reverts to their 
bishop ? I congratulate your Grace that you 
can soon enlarge your gardens, and that when 
you itemise your schedule of this heretic's for- 
feited goods you may head your share with 
the Red Box." 



The Red Box 129 

II 

IN WHICH THE RED BOX BECOMES THE CENTRE OF 
COMPLICATIONS 

Raymond Garcia passed the eve of his 
wedding day with his betrothed, and twined 
the rope of pearls about her slender throat, 
not choosing to mar her pleasure in them by 
telling her, as he had learned from the mer- 
chant, that to possess them he had outbid 
the Bishop of Albi. For Felicie's woman's 
heart would have conjured visions of thwarted 
greed and rancour which seemed absurd to 
his intrepid mind. 

She was instinctively as apprehensive of 
danger as a fawn, and had the same startled 
eyes and sensitive, quivering nostrils, which 
Raymond mirthfully said seemed to scent 
alarm in every footfall. Felicie de Lavaur 
had good excuse for her timidity. West of 
Albi on the way to Toulouse may still be seen 
the blackened ruins of the castle of her an- 
cestors, sacked a century before the date of 
our story by the terrible Simon de Montfort 
during the crusade against the Albigenses. 

Its lord with other noblemen who defended it 
were on its surrender massacred in cold blood, 
the peasants who had taken refuge within its 



130 French Abbeys 

walls were burned alive, and its lady had been 
thrown into the castle-well and her life crushed 
otit with stones. (See Note A.) 

This had happened long ago, when Felicie's 
grandfather was a child; but hidden in an 
outbuilding he had witnessed it all, and al- 
though he lived to old age it was in a half- 
crazed condition. 

All of his children and grandchildren were 
cowards. It was not their fault, but an ab- 
normal condition of their brain cells which 
rnust repeat itself through many generations. 

Felicie was trembling now for her beloved 
on account of the rash conduct of his younger 
brother Amauld Garcia. Certain good Christ- 
ians of Albi had lately been haled before the 
tribunal of the Inquisition, and Arnauld, a 
young doctor of laws, but learned beyond his 
years, had gone to Paris with a deputation 
from other towns of Languedoc, which had 
suffered in like manner, to plead their cause 
before the King, 

Even while Raymond was quieting her fears 
concerning him there came a knocking at the 
barred gate, and Amauld himself, who had 
but just arrived, intruded upon the lovers in 
his eagerness to tell of his success. 

"It is triumph, Raymond!" he cried; 



The Red Box 131 

"triumph beyond our most sanguine dreams. 
Nay, fear not, Fehcie, this is Brother Bernard 
DeHcieux, who, though a Franciscan friar, 
dared to go with us as deputy from Carcas- 
sonne. We owe our victory in great part to 
him, for though his Majesty listened to my 
arguments he has not a legal mind, and was 
not so much impressed by their cogency as I 
had reason to expect ; but he was completely 
won by Brother Bernard's eloquence, and we 
can snap our fingers now at Foulques de Saint 
Georges and at our Bishop, who persecute 
good Christians solely that they may possess 
their wealth." 

"God send you be not over confident," 
murmured Felicie. 

"Nay, listen," continued Amauld Garcia. 
"The King hath commissioned the Vidame 
Jean de Picquigny to inquire into the transac- 
tions of the tribunal of the Inquisition at 
Carcassonne, and to reform its abuses, re- 
minding him that it has no power to inflict the 
punishment of death, but can only judge sus- 
pected persons, and if it finds them guilty, 
recommend the civil authorities to deal with 
them. That is to say, hand them over to the 
Vidame himself, and we know that there does 
not live a more merciful man than Jean de 



132 French Abbeys 

Picquigny. Interrupt me not, for there is 
better news still. His Majesty, justly indig- 
nant at the malpractices of Foulques de Saint 
Georges, has written to the heads of the 
Dominican order demanding his instant re- 
moval from the Holy Office. What say you to 
that, my children? I met the rogue in the 
street, and I could not forbear giving him a 
slap of my tongue. 'You left Albi suddenly, 
Maitre Garcia,' he said; 'was your journey 
long?' 'Not longer nor more unexpected 
than your reverence may soon take,' I an- 
swered — and you should have seen his face. 
It was green with malice." 

"But the Inquisition itself," insisted Fe- 
licie, "that has not been abolished, and its 
dreadful work will simply go on under an- 
other Inquisitor." 

"Fear not, my daughter," Bernard Deli- 
cieux said kindly. "When once a just man is 
appointed, what can he find to punish ? There 
has been no heresy in Albi; no, nor in all 
Languedoc for an hundred years." 

The girl shuddered and crossed herself. 
"Knowest thou, reverend Father, what this 
horrible crime was which deserved such pun- 
ishment? I have often wondered, but have 
never dared to ask." 



The Red Box 133 

"It was an error, my daughter, into which 
only the unhappy can fall. They thought 
marriage evil and suicide good, for the times 
were cruel and they believed that it were 
better that the human race should end of its 
voluntary act, than that it should fester in 
wickedness until God destroyed it with fire 
from heaven." 

"No danger of such heresy here," laughed 
Amauld. "Thou seest. Brother Bernard, 
how it is with yonder pair of turtle-doves." 

The good friar raised his hands in blessing. 
"Marriage is a holy sacrament," he said. 
"God make you worthy of your happiness." 

"How incredible that they should have 
thought it sin," Felicie murmured, "and 
suicide right. But if one must bum, I could 
understand that temptation." 

"That could not I," her lover replied. "I 
had the opportunity when I bought these 
pearls of providing myself at the same time 
with swift escape by that road from any tor- 
ture that may overtake me. I know not why 
I tell you that I scorned to do so, unless it be 
to prove to Felicie my confidence that the old 
evil days are past, and if not, then God grant 
me the death of a brave man, not that of a 
coward." 



134 French Abbeys 

"Well spoken, my son," said Bernard, 
"and if trouble should come, wait patiently 
on God, for He still worketh miracles." 

They knew not what they said, or that the 
time was near when both Raymond Garcia 
and Bernard Delicieux would long, as for the 
greatest of all boons, for one of those almond 
comfits with its merciful swift -dealing death. 

Raymond and Felicie sat late together 
telling each other of their happiness, but as 
the bridegroom left his palace door on the 
morrow to meet his bride at the cathedral, 
rough hands were laid upon him, and he was 
arrested in the name of the Inquisition. 

Ill 

THE RED BOX AT CARCASSONNE 

Foulques de Saint Georges had been too 
prompt in his work to please the Bishop of 
Albi. Had he delayed the arrest until after 
Raymond Garcia 's marriage Felicie 's jewels 
would have been among the goods and chat- 
tels confiscated, but now the disappointed 
Bishop searched the Garcia palace in vain for 
the red box. 

Raymond Garcia had been immediately 
conducted to Carcassonne, where were the 



The Red Box 135 

prisons and tribunal of the Inquisition. His 
friends were denied access to him, but as he 
was marched with other prisoners through 
the city gate, they had stood in the crowd 
held back by the guards and shouted their 
greetings. 

Felicie's heart was sick with terror; but 
love is stronger than fear. "Raymond," she 
cried, "wait for the miracle; you shall be set 
at liberty." 

"I will wait," he answered with a brave 
smile. He could make no gesture of farewell 
with his manacled hands, but he threw his 
long hair back with a proud motion of his 
head and gazed fixedly at his beloved until 
out of sight. 

"It is Raymond's part to wait for the 
miracle," said Amauld Garcia, "but it is ours 
to perform it. God knows which has the 
harder task." He was consumed with indig- 
nation and apprehension, but he had no 
thought of failure. The seals of the Inquisi- 
tion were on the doors of his home which he 
would never enter again. No matter, he had 
other property, enough, he flattered himself, 
to bribe the most grasping of judges, and he 
set out at once with Bernard Delicieux for 
Carcassonne. With them, in spite of her 



136 French Abbeys 

father's entreaty, rode FeHcie. De Lavaur 
loved his daughter, but he was distracted 
with fear. "The Bishop of Albi is my 
friend," he said. "I may be able to save 
Raymond better here than in a town of 
strangers. Meanwhile, here is money, but 
be cautious, and, above all things, restrain 
Arnauld. He is devoted, but rash. He 
has done enough already to place himself in 
the power of the Inquisition. I marvel that 
he was not arrested instead of our poor 
Raymond." 

Arnauld Garcia was fully aware of the 
enmity of which he was the object, and he 
understood as clearly that his immunity lay 
in his influence with the King, which both he 
and his enemies exaggerated. Bernard De- 
licieux, the Franciscan, was exactly in the 
same case with himself, and with the help of 
this brave monk he felt himself a match for 
the Inquisitor. 

Two monasteries of rival brotherhoods, the 
Dominicans and the Franciscans, flourished at 
this time at Carcassonne, and well exem.pli- 
fled the temper of their founders. To the dis- 
ciples of the stern Saint Dominic had been 
confided the maintenance of the Inquisition. 
Since the Albigensian crusade, when Dominic 



The Red Box 137 

de Guzman made his debut as the fanatic in- 
stigator of its atrocities, the order which he had 
founded in Toulouse for "the cure of souls" 
had spread until it divided with the Fran- 
ciscans the control of the Church, and even 
the temporal power of Christendom. The two 
orders were the antipodes of each other in 
everything except ambition, for the Fran- 
ciscans not only preached but practised 
charity, the doctrine of the gentle Francis. 

At Carcassonne their conflict was now to be 
fought out by Foulques de Saint Georges and 
by Bernard Delicieux, each man determined 
to win, and each a leader in his own order. 

From day to day Bernard and Arnauld 
Garcia confidently awaited the removal of 
Foulques from his office. The King had de- 
manded this from the Dominican order — on 
the strength of the representations of Bernard 
and Garcia. But a heavy disappointment was 
in store for them, for the royal request was 
firmly refused. This was a blow indeed, but 
Arnauld showed no signs of despair. 

' ' If the King of France is powerless to help 
us," he said to Bernard, "I will appeal to 
Spain. The Garcias are of the old Aragonese 
nobility. Fernan, Prince of Majorca, is my 
friend." 



138 French Abbeys 

But Bernard laid a warning hand on Ar- 
nauld's arm. 

"You could not please Foulques better 
than by such a course," he said. "Since the 
transfer of Languedoc to France, the old 
Spanish aristocracy have been closely watched 
for any signs of disloyalty. Beware how you 
play into the hands of your enemies. Wait, 
and trust to Jean de Picquigny. The In- 
quisitor may arrest whom he pleases and 
hand them to the Vidame. With no matter 
what instructions, Jean de Picquigny will 
burn no one, will hang no one, will torture 
no one. Wait." 

But Foulques had foreseen the Vidame's 
leniency, and had his own scheme for thwart- 
ing it. 

Day after day Raymond's friends waited 
for news of his trial. He was neither re- 
leased nor delivered for punishment to the 
secular arm. The grim fagade of the Domin- 
ican monastery, behind which were the prisons 
of the Inquisition, was not more silent than 
the monks who came and went. Nor were 
Arnauld Garcia's and Felicie's the only 
anxious hearts that besieged its gates for 
news of their beloved. Many arrests had 
been made in Cordes, Albi, and other neigh- 



The Red Box 139 

bouring towns. The distracted relatives of 
the victims swarmed the streets of Carcas- 
sonne, and the citizens of the town murmured 
their sympathy hoarsely and threw stones at 
Foulques de Saint Georges when he rode 
through the street. 

The Inquisitor felt the pulse of the popular 
hatred when a tile grazed his cheek. He was 
as brave as he was cruel, but this was no time 
to sentence victims to the stake, for the city 
was on the verge of riot. But there were 
other less spectacular modes of compassing 
his ends, and he felt that in the long game of 
patience he held the winning cards. 

He had scarcely entered his cloister when 
a visitor was announced. 

It was the Vidame, Jean de Picquigny, who 
had been summoned by a committee of pro- 
minent citizens to demand from the Inquisi- 
tion an accounting for its prisoners. 

He was answered that the tribunal was not 
exceeding its powers. The time which must 
intervene between condemnation and punish- 
ment was not set by any law. If the tribunal 
in its mercy delayed handing its criminals 
over to a swift execution of their sentence, 
surely their friends should be the last to 
complain. 



140 French Abbeys 

The King himself, in reminding the Inquisi- 
tion so arrogantly that its office was to se- 
quester guilty persons, not to punish them— 
Ad custodiam non ad pcenam, — ^had confirmed 
its right to imprison indefinitely. Let all 
rest assured that the prisoners would be duly 
fed "with the bread and water of affliction." 
If they died before they were brought to the 
stake, none could impeach the Inquisition 
for any violation of the exact letter of the 
law. 

When the Vidame brought this answer to 
the crowd waiting in the public square, Fe- 
licie's heart stood still. "Did this mean per- 
petual imprisonment for Raymond? Would 
he remain many years in his dungeon ? ' ' 

But Amauld Garcia laughed bitterly, for he 
understood better than she the depth of 
cruelty hidden beneath this announcement, 
"Raymond will not linger so long," he said; 
"a year, perhaps, for he is strong, and he has 
given you his word not to destroy him.self; 
but unless we can rescue him speedily, you 
may pray God to send death to his release." 

"Are their prisons so horrible?" Felicie 
asked shudderingly. 

"They are not imprisoned," cried a woman 
in like case. " Have you not heard?" 



The Red Box 141 

"Nay, woman, in mercy be silent!" com- 
manded Arnauld ; but she went on wildly. 

"They are not imprisoned, they are walled 
up alive! Only a small opening is left before 
each niche, one stone unset, and through that 
hand-breadth a crust of bread and a cup of 
water are passed daily; just enough to keep 
death from ending their tortures; but at last, 
at last, the ravings of madness end in silence, 
and the masons set the missing stone." 

The girl turned faint, and Arnauld bathed 
her face at the fountain in the centre of the 
square. 

"Listen," he said, as the loud ringing of a 
tocsin smote upon the air. "The citizens of 
Carcassonne are not the men to suffer such 
atrocity, at least not when their blood is up, 
and Brother Bernard has it at the boiling 
point. He has been haranguing them in the 
church of the Franciscans, and that bell is the 
signal that they have sent him to tell the Vi- 
dame that unless he marches at their head as 
they go now to the Dominican Convent, and 
commands the opening of those living tombs, 
they will leave no stone of the convent upon 
another. Go into the house and wait us, 
Felicie, for I will bring Raymond to you in 
half an hour." 



142 French Abbeys 

"Nay, I will go with you," said the girl; 
and they joined the throng of men, women, 
and children surging resolutely to the convent 
gates. 

Jean de Picquigny had rejoiced to receive 
that message. If the town were in revolt, 
what blame could the King find if he some- 
what exceeded his commission in preserving 
order? He addressed the excited populace, 
agreeing to give his sanction to the removal 
of their friends in an orderly manner to the 
citadel, there to wait under his care the 
pleasure of the King. This compromise ac- 
cepted by the mob, the Vidame led the way 
to the Dominican convent and summoned the 
friars to unbar their gates. 

Instead the Inquisitor appeared at an 
upper window and excommunicated him for 
thus violating their monastery. 

Jean de Picquigny did not flinch, and the 
mob at his command battered in the portal 
and forced their way to the prison. They 
would have done violence to the panic- 
stricken friars but for Bernard, who held them 
in leash with his dominating voice. "This 
is a day of gladness," he cried; "let no blood 
be shed." 

While the workmen toiled with pickaxe and 



The Red Box 143 

lever, the eloquent monk had a still more 
difficult task to restrain the frenzied women 
who pressed forward, wild to know if those 
they loved were still living. Felicie com- 
forted a beautiful boy who called piteously 
on his father. "Listen, listen, my child," 
she said; "listen, and you will the sooner 
recognise his voice," and in thus controlling 
the child she schooled herself in that agony 
of suspense. 

One by one the stones were torn from their 
place, and eyes that in despair had ceased to 
weep now rained happy tears upon the faces 
of their beloved. 

They were still to be prisoners in the citadel, 
but how different their condition; lodged in 
airy chambers, supplied with all necessities, 
and, best of all, tenderly nursed by their 
friends and cheered by the hope of acquittal 
(for the King himself was soon to make a 
progress through Languedoc) . What wonder 
that as Felicie pressed Raymond's wasted 
cheek against her own they believed that the 
miracle for which they had laboured and 
waited had been wrought, and that the bitter- 
ness of death was past? 



144 French Abbeys 

IV 

IN WHICH THE RED BOX ACCOMPLISHES THAT UNTO 
WHICH IT WAS FOREORDAINED 

" And seld-seen costly stones of so much price, 
And of a carect of this quantity, 
May serve in peril of calamity 
To ransom great kings from captivity." 

Marlowe's " Rich Jew of Malta." 

"Put not your trust in princes," said the 
Vidame, bitterly, when PhiHppe le Bel re- 
fused to interfere further, and referred the 
petitioners to the Pope. 

"Nay, this is indeed the sovereign Pontiff's 
business, ' ' replied Bernard. ' ' We should have 
gone to him at first." 

There was but one way to reach the ear of 
Benedict XL, one of the most venal of the 
Popes, and when Bernard set out for Avignon, 
Felicie was among the first to confide to him 
her offering — the red box of pearls. 

Bernard had two petitions to present to the 
Pope: the removal of the excommunication 
launched upon Jean de Picquigny and the re- 
lease of the prisoners still retained by him as 
a half-way measure in defiance of Foulques 
de Saint Georges, but in deference to the 
authority of the Church. Bernard returned 



., UNTO 



Bernard Delicieux Liberating the Prisoners. 

■ '' iFroni the painting by Jean I'anl Laurens. 
(Hy permission ot\Nwr<^'ein.) 



The Red Box 145 

baffled, though not absolutely hopeless. He 
had not been able to see his Holiness, but he 
had found a faithful friend in the Pope's phy- 
sician, Maitre de Villeneuve, who had been a 
fellow -student of Bernard's at the University 
of Montpellier. To him he had confided 
Felicie's pearls. They would reach Benedict 
XI. and must emphasise her appeal, for they 
were worthy a king's ransom. 

No answer came, and desperation filled the 
souls of Bernard and Arnauld, for the two 
actors in the drama on whom they had most 
counted — the Pope and the brave Vidame — 
died suddenly within a few weeks of each 
other. 

Be it known to the honour of the Fran- 
ciscans that they celebrated a mass in behalf 
of the excommunicated Jean de Picquigny, 
and appointed Bernard Delicieux to preach 
his funeral oration. In the face of his 
triumphant enemies he declared that the Vi- 
dame, who had plead the cause of the perse- 
cuted unavailingly before King and Pope, 
had now gone to arraign the Pontiff before 
the bar of Almighty God. Such denunciation 
was an act of sublime heroism, but it was also 
sublime folly. It was a challenge to Foulques 
de Saint Georges to do his worst, and at the 



146 French Abbeys 

death of the Vidame his victims had been re- 
manded to their prisons in the Dominican 
monastery. 

All of the negotiations entered into with 
Benedict XI. must be repeated to gain the ear 
of the new Pope, and Bernard again set out 
for Avignon to appeal to Clement V. 

Arnauld Garcia hoped nothing from the 
mission, for Bernard had now no friend at the 
Papal Court. Months passed, and the good 
monk wrote to the impatient friends at Car- 
cassonne that the Cardinals accepted his 
bribes, and assured him that the matter 
would in the due course of affairs be brought 
to the attention of his Holiness, who had 
hundreds of other petitions awaiting his con- 
sideration. 

It was true that Clement was not over- 
burdened with holy duties, but was acting on 
the principle of another Pontiff, "Enjoy we 
the papacy, since God has given it to us." 

' ' But what of that ? ' ' asked the Cardinals. 
"Were a Pope's hours of relaxation to be im- 
pudently interfered with? The petitioners 
must wait." 

Arnauld Garcia could wait no longer. The 
Inquisition was now burning its victims at 
the stake in the public square of Carcassonne. 



The Red Box 147 

Raymond's sentence had been pronounced and 
might be executed at any day. If not burned 
in pubhc, he could not possibly linger long, 
and might even now be dying in the loathsome 
hollow within the walls. Desperate crises 
called for desperate remedies, and one was at 
hand. 

Prince Fernand of Majorca, son of King 
Jayme of Aragon, had communicated with 
Amauld and had promised that if Carcas- 
sonne would receive him as its lord, he would 
come with such an army as should hold it 
against all besiegers, and that under his 
suzerainty the Inquisition should be sup- 
pressed. It was a wild dream of a chivalrous 
and impractical boy, but to Arnauld Garcia, 
who had always looked upon the French as 
invaders of the province, there seemed no im- 
possibility and no dishonour in returning to 
Spanish allegiance. 

Arnauld therefore presented the proposition 
of the Prince at a secret meeting of the coun- 
cillors of Carcassonne. 

"Call this rebellion if you choose," he de- 
clared. "We hear nothing from Bernard. 
We are betrayed by the King of France, and 
deserted by the Pope. Shall we leave our 
own flesh and blood to rot in their living 



148 French Abbeys 

graves, or shall we rescue them, if not by the 
help of God, then by the help of the devil?" 

His impassioned arguments carried the day, 
and Amauld was sent to Pei-pignan to meet 
Prince Femand. 

Felicie divined vaguely what was on foot, 
for though Amauld had told her only that 
he was going on a most important journey 
which might change all their fortunes, she 
had feared this all along, and had vainly 
striven to hold his impulsive spirit within 
bounds. Earnestly she besought him to wait 
until Brother Bernard returned. She could 
only prevail upon him to communicate with 
him at Avignon. 

"And if you fail?" Felicie asked in agony. 

"I shall not fail," Amauld replied, his 
eyes shining with excitement, and he had 
left her to battle alone with her misgivings. 

Days and weeks passed without word from 
either Arnauld or Bemard, but at last there 
came a day when a traveller drew bridle at 
Felicie's door. It was her father, whom she 
had not seen since she left Albi, and he brought 
great news indeed. 

Bernard's persistency had forced itself upon 
the Pope's leisure, and for once Clement had 
showed himself worthy of his name, and had 



The Red Box 149 

sent the Cardinal de Saint Vital and the 
Abbot of Fontefroide into Languedoc to in- 
vestigate the causes of complaint. The depu- 
tation had gone first to Albi ; and the Bishop, 
alarmed by the inquiries of these dignitaries, 
had made a feint of co-operation, attesting 
that certain of his flock who had been ar- 
rested by Foulques de Saint Georges were 
good Christians. In so doing he had seen 
his way to make the situation serve his own 
ends, and sending for De Lavaur had told 
him that the Cardinals were but men, and 
might be induced to clear Raymond Garcia. 
A certain red casket said to contain pearls 
had been scheduled among his confiscated 
effects, but had not been found in his palace. 
It was a crime to withhold goods which al- 
ready belonged to the Church, but if the red 
box were immediately placed in his posses- 
sion, the Bishop would pass over the fraud 
and assure the Cardinals as to Raymond's 
orthodoxy. 

De Lavaur agreed without demur. Felicie 
was at Carcassonne, and would be over- 
joyed to purchase her lover's liberty with 
his gift. He would instantly seek her and 
return with the pearls. The Bishop, relying 
on De Lavaur 's good faith and quite as much 



I50 French Abbeys 

upon his fears, gave him his blessing, and 
placed Raymond's name upon the list of 
those recommended to mercy. The Cardinals 
had passed him on the road, and were now at 
the Dominican convent. Felicie might pre- 
pare herself to welcome her lover. 

It was no false hope, for the men who 
formed the committee, though selfish volup- 
tuaries, were not essentially cruel, and were 
shocked by the result of their investigations, 
and that very night they set Raymond Garcia 
at liberty, together with thirty-nine other 
innocent men, who for five years (save for 
their respite in the care of Jean de Picquigny) 
had awaited trial in darkness and filth and 
misery inconceivable. 

Some were violently insane, others blind, 
and Raymond's mind had undergone a 
strange eclipse, for he had mercifully for- 
gotten all that had happened since his arrest, 
and woke from a long trance-like sleep weak 
and spent, but with the belief that it was his 
wedding-mom. 

He was troubled when he found that he 
could not rise. "I shall be late for the cere- 
mony," he said, "and Felicie is waiting for 
me at the cathedral." 

"Nay, I am here, my own," she replied. 



The Red Box 151 

"You have been ill and must rest, but we shall 
be wedded soon, and I shall not leave you. ' ' He 
closed his eyes again quite content, blissfully 
unconscious of all the suffering through which 
he had passed, or of any cause of alarm for the 
future. 

But Felicie's father was nearly crazed with 
consternation when he understood that his 
promise to the Bishop of Albi could not be 
fulfilled. "We must flee," he reiterated, 
"we must flee before the Bishop knows the 
truth and visits his displeasure upon us." 

Bernard Delicieux, who had returned from 
Avignon in company w^ith the papal envoys, 
also counselled immediate flight. He had 
heard from Arnauld. The conspiracy had 
failed, and was known to the authorities, and 
Arnauld would not return. "You must join 
him at Perpignan," said Bernard, "while you 
have the opportunity; in another twelve 
hours it may be too late. I will inform the 
Bishop of Albi, when I judge that you are out 
of harm's way, of the disposition which you 
have made of the pearls, and Monsieur de 
Lavaur can, if he chooses, make him a pro- 
pitiatory gift of his real estate in Albi. As 
well make a virtue of a necessity, since it is 
quite in his power. ' ' 



152 French Abbeys 

They laid Raymond in a gently swaying 
litter, and setting forth at night, by round- 
about ways and through obscure passes, 
crossed the Pyrenees; not tarrying even at 
Perpignan, or considering themselves safe 
until they arrived at Majorca, where under the 
protection of Prince Fernand, Raymond and 
Arnauld Garcia, Felicie and her father passed 
the remainder of their lives in grateful exile. 
News travelled slowly in those days, and not 
until it was long past did they learn of the 
martyrdom of their friend. 

Bernard Delicieux might have escaped had 
he so elected, but his conception of his duty 
kept him at his post. The Pope's mercy was 
but a momentary spasm, and the Inquisition 
was not likely to overlook the man who had 
so long defied it. 

Bernard was excommunicated, and tried on 
three charges: 

1 . That he had for many years opposed the 
holy office of the Inquisition. . 

2. That he had conspired against the King 
of France with the Prince of Majorca. 

3. That he had poisoned Pope Benedict XL 
(See Note B.) 

The last charge was preposterous, but there 
lacked not witnesses to depose that Bernard 



The Red Box 153 

Delicieux had given the Pope's physician a 
small Red Box, remarking significantly as he 
did so: "And now I trust we shall soon have 
good news"; and that very shortly there- 
after Benedict XL died as was reported of an 
indigestion. 

It was believed that the Inquisition pos- 
sessed other secret evidence, for the verdict 
of the tribunal declared authoritatively that 
"the said coffre contained preparations, pow- 
ders, by means of which the life of the said 
Benedict was cut short." 

Degraded, tortured, condemned to the 
same punishment from which he had rescued 
so many, he was walled up alive in the Do- 
minican monastery. How long his agony 
lasted no man knows. 

"He had saved others, himself he could not 
save," and in all France there was no one 
brave enough to lift voice or hand for his 
release. 




CHAPTER VII 

THE ADVENTURES OF VER VERT 

I 

THE MISTLETOE QUEEN 

" LJA! HA!" cackled the Abbey parrot. 

*• ^ "Canticum novum'' ("a new song"), 
''novum, novum, ha! ha! ha!" and the dia- 
boHcal bird burst into new songs indeed, 
which had never before wakened the echoes of 
that sacred cloister. They were ribald glees 
such as bargemen roar, and round, coarse 
oaths, with words of such low import that the 
gentle nuns heard them unabashed, for they 
understood them not. 

But the community was grieved beyond 
measure, and the Abbess horror-stricken and 
indignant, while the little Queen Mistletoe 
was heartbroken, for her cherished playfellow 
Ver Vert, her only merry companion in this 

154 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 155 

peaceful but somewhat dull retreat, had fallen 
from grace and must be banished from the 
convent. 

The child would now be doubly lonely and 
homesick, for her soubriquet of the Mistletoe 
Queen but too vividly told the truth that she 
was of foreign birth borne hither by an ill 
wind of fortune and unloved by the stock 
that nourished her. 

It was Louis XL of France who had first 
bestowed the name upon the little Austrian 
Princess, who was to be bred up in France as 
the affianced bride of his son. 

"Take her to your heart, Charles," the 
dying King had commanded. "Her father, 
Maximilian, and I have played against each 
other all our lives, now in open feud, now 
striving to overreach each other in diplomatic 
intrigue, the stakes of our game the fair pro- 
vinces of the Netherlands. I have won at last, 
for the Princess Marguerite brings them to 
you as her dowry. Both she and they are 
French now. Let her never feel herself an 
alien, but cherish her even as that sturdy 
oak nourishes its crown of mistletoe. Go, 
Charles, and welcome her, your little Mistletoe 
Queen." 

The young prince obeyed reluctantly, but 



156 French Abbeys 

scowled as the spoiled child repulsed his un- 
willing salute, crying: 

"Go away, you ugly thing. You stutter, 
and you have big eyes like an owl. I want 
the pretty boy with the yellow hair and the 
pink cheeks, the pretty boy in the green velvet 
doublet." 

The cheeks of the saucy page thtis desig- 
nated grew rosier still behind his plumed cap. 
He was only a young Savoyard, called Phili- 
bert le Beau, who had been sent to France to 
learn the manners of a courtier. They had 
come to him naturally enough, and Philibert 
was universally acknowledged the handsomest, 
the most accomplished, and the most engaging 
of the royal pages. If we add that his rank 
as second cousin of the Duke of Savoy was as 
inconsiderable as his fortune it will be under- 
stood that the Dauphin (in a few days by "his 
father's death to be Charles VIII. of France) 
had no reason to fear the marked preference 
of his three-year-old betrothed. 

Her affection then and always was a matter 
of supreme indifference to her betrothed, and 
he saw little of her, for his older sister, who 
had been appointed gouvernante of the little 
girl, presentl}^ took her to her own estates. 
But Marguerite's fancy for the handsome page 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 157 

was fostered by this arrangement, for she was 
presently confided to the nuns of the Visit- 
andines of Nevers to be fitted for the elevated 
station to which she was destined, and it was 
Philibert who from time to time carried her 
the letters of the boy -King. They were such 
as it was the duty of a punctilious young gen- 
tleman to send to his affianced; but alas! 
Charles not only did not write them but could 
not have done so, for his education had been 
shamefully neglected, and the mendacious 
missives were all penned by the King's sister, 
my Lady of Beaujeu. Philibert knew this 
right well, but he kept the secret for several 
years, not only out of loyalty to those who 
sent him, and because he had no heart to mar 
the child's pleasure in receiving them, but per- 
haps also because he feared that blabbing he 
might lose this privilege of occasionally seeing 
the little Mistletoe Queen. 

She loved to prattle with him and to ask 
him questions of the Court, and he to answer. 
They were both lonely, homesick children, and 
the Soeur Melanie, who sat with them as they 
chatted in the cloister garden, saw no harm 
in their innocent interviews. 

In Philibert's absence Marguerite's favour- 
ite playmate was the convent parrot. This 



158 French Abbeys 

highly accompHshed fowl was with good reason 
the boast of the community. The pious nuns 
had taught him not only to repeat the Ave 
Maria and a few other fragmentary Latin ejac- 
ulations, but he could sing portions of their 
favourite chant, the Veni Sanctus Spiritus. 

It was Marguerite's delight to put him 
through his paces with Philibert for audience. 
The little girl saw no incongruity in the bird's 
senseless parodies of prayers and hymns ; but 
the page was mightily amused, and his eyes 
sparkled with mischief as he exclaimed : 

"By the mass, it would be rare sport to 
teach the creature some naughty jests, and 
how it would scandalise the good nuns to 
hear Ver Vert troll a drinking song." 

"That shall he not," Marguerite replied in 
real distress. "Ver Vert is a good Christian, 
and his morals shall not be corrupted. He 
understands all that he says and what he 
hears. But listen while he chants the Sanc- 
tus, and you will believe, as Sister Melanie 
does, that he has a soul. Come, Ver Vert, a 
canticum novum — ^pretty Ver Vert, sing Veni, 
veni. ' ' 

The eerie bird echoed the words and the 
notes perfectly. 

" Veni, lumen cordium/' trilled Marguerite. 




VER VERT AT THE CONVENT OF THE VISITANDINES. 
From an old print, permission of Longmans, Gieen & Co. 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 159 

' ' Vem, veni, ' ' Ver Vert responded doubt- 
fully, his head cocked on one side as though 
he were striving to master the lesson. Then 
suddenly shrieking, "Novum canticum, novum 
canticum," he burst into riotous and triumph- 
ant cackling of a new song indeed: 

" Veni, veni, veni, Philibert, 
Lumen cordiuni meum, Philibert, 
Gauditim, cordiuni meiim, Philibert, 
Veni, veni, veni, Philibert. 

Alleluia, Amen." 

The boy shouted with laughter, but Mar- 
guerite, mortified and grieved beyond expres- 
sion, closed the bird's beak with her fingers 
while the tears sprang to her eyes. 

"Think not," she exclaimed, "that Ver 
Vert has ever heard me utter thy name. I 
know not with which of you I am the more 
vexed. Ah! he shall do penance. He shall 
have his cage darkened and shall fast till he 
shows true repentance. And thou, saucy 
page, go away, nor come again, for thou art in 
nowise the light or joy of my heart." 



i6o French Abbeys 

II 

EPISODE OF THE PROFANE PARROT 

With voice upraised in oaths profuse 
He mastered ah the language blackguards use; 
With words obscene thus pouring from his beak, 
The younger sisters deeme he spake in Greek. 

Gresset, Translated by T. S. Allen. 

Philibert had departed abashed, but in a 
few weeks he came again. 

"Why have you returned?" Marguerite 
asked. "Could his Majesty find no other 
messenger to bring me his letters ? ' ' 

"I came not from King Charles, dear lady," 
the page replied, "but from his Grace George 
d'Amboise. Think not, sweet mistress, that 
I have ever mentioned Ver Vert, but my 
message concerns that idiotic bird." 

' ' Ver Vert ! ' ' exclaimed Marguerite. ' ' What 
does his Grace know of our parrot ? ' ' 

' ' It seems that every one has heard of him ; 
his fame has even reached Lower Brittany, 
and the Duchesse Anne de Bretagne is wild to 
possess him." 

"That we know already," replied Mar- 
guerite. "The Superior of a nunnery at 
Nantes has written our Abbess requesting her 
to sell or at least to lend Ver Vert, but she 
has refused to do so." 



The Adventures of Ver Vert i6i 

"Your Abbess ratist now yield," replied 
Philibert, "for the Bishop, who has some un- 
known reason for wishing to please the 
Duchess, has written that the parrot must be 
despatched at once." 

Marguerite clenched her hand. 

' ' I hate Anne de Bretagne. She has robbed 
me of my father, and now she would take Ver 
Vert from me." 

" I know not your meaning, sweet mistress," 
Philibert replied in surprise. 

"Perchance I have divulged a state secret," 
the girl exclaimed, "but it cannot long remain 
hidden. Thou knowest that my father, the 
Emperor Maximilian, is a widower. He has 
written me that he is to marry this same 
Duchess Anne of Brittany." 

"The King of France will never suffer it," 
said the page, "for Brittany is a French 
province, and by this marriage the Duchess 
would carry it as her dower to Austria." 

"I care not, I care not," wailed Marguerite. 
"Let who will possess Brittany, so I have my 
Ver Vert." 

"Alas ! dear Madame, his Grace insisted that 
I was to carry the parrot to Nantes, and you 
will see that the Abbess will not dare to refuse 
him. But," he added, touched by the girl's 



1 62 French Abbeys 

grief, ' ' I promise you that you shall have Ver 
Vert back again, for I have thought of an 
expedient." 

"Have you indeed, dear Philibert? Only 
bring Ver Vert again, and I will forgive you 
for— for- — " 

' ' For what, dear Queen ? Because he uttered 
my insignificant name?" 

"Because you laughed — because you 
thought he had learned it from hearing me 
repeat it." 

"Nay, that were too wildly sweet even to 
dream. I know my station, your Majesty, 
and presume only to be your devoted servitor. 
Ver Vert shall return, but it may be that when 
he comes your Abbess will cast him out. If 
that should be, intercede for me, most gra- 
cious lady, that I may possess him, and I will 
correct whatever faults he may in his absence 
have acquired, so that in the end you shall 
have him such as he leaves you." 

Philibert 's scheme is apparent, even to 
those who have not read the ancient ballad 
which Gresset rhymed of Ver Vert's next ad- 
ventures. How, taking passage on a barge 
bound for Nantes, as he glided slowly down 
the winding Loire, out of lovely Touraine into 
distant Brittany, the precocious creature 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 163 

picked up through the page's connivance the 
argot and even the oaths of the bargemen, and 
at the end of his voyage swore Hke a trooper 
and put them all to the blush by the unbridled 
licence of his conversation. 

Arrived at Nantes, Ver Vert was carried to 
the convent, where the Duchess was waiting 
with the members of the community to re- 
ceive him. 

The parrot regarded his hostesses silently, 
accepting the sugar and cakes given him, but 
deigning no response to compliments and 
caresses. 

"Dear bird," said the Abbess, "we have 
heard of thy marvellous aptitude for spiritual 
studies; that thou canst recite the Creed and 
hast mastered the Catechism. We have ex- 
pected great edification from thy visit. Deign 
to do credit to thy teachers, our saintly sisters 
of Nevers, by responding to the questions 
which Sister Angelique will now read at 
random." 

The nun read the first question on which her 
eye fell: 

"By what means do we obtain salvation?" 

"Sang et mort!'' shrieked the parrot, re- 
peating the skipper's favourite oath, "Blood 
and death, ye lazy swine." 



164 French Abbeys 

Astonishment fell upon Ver Vert's gentle 
audience; but the Abbess rose to the occa- 
sion. 

"Right aptly hast thou answered, O parrot, 
for it is indeed by the most precious blood 
that we are saved; and well do some of our 
number deserve thy reproach of indolence. 
Ask another question, Sister Angelique, for 
verily the wisdom of this creature is most 
marvellous." 

"What shall be the portion of the impeni- 
tent throughout eternity?" the reader asked 
meekly. 

But thereupon such terrible words burst in 
a rapid volley of reiteration from the parrot's 
throat that it seemed to his shocked audience 
that a very volcano of the infernal pit were 
belching forth its lurid flames in their midst. 

"Holy Mother, preserve us!" gasped the 
Abbess. "I beseech thee, sweet parrot, speak 
more gently. Give not such terrific vehem- 
ence to thy utterances, true though they be. 
Put to him yet another question and mark 
well how unerringly he replies." 

"Repeat thy Credo, O parrot," commanded 
Angelique. 

"Women and Wine!" cackled Ver Vert, 
bursting at the same time into fiendish 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 165 

laughter, and varying this performance with 
an imitation of the popping of corks. 

The nuns looked at one another in conster- 
nation, while the Abbess, rising, rebuked Ver 
Vert sternly. 

'T adjure thee, profane creature, to answer 
the question which I shall now put thee with 
reverence, and utter not the name of thy 
Creator with blasphemous levity. Who made 
thee, O parrot?" 

"The Devil! the Devil! the Devil!" cackled 
Ver Vert in high glee, while the nuns, crossing 
themselves in horror, or thrusting their fingers 
into their ears, rushed from the room. 

After this Anne de Bretagne had no longer 
any desire to possess the disreputable Ver 
Vert, who was forthwith ignominiously re- 
turned to the Visitandines of Nevers, to the 
inexpressible scandal of that innocent com- 
munity. The nuns could harbour the de- 
bauched bird no longer in their holy cloister, 
and Marguerite's petition that he should be 
given to Philibert was disregarded,- — such a 
libel on the conversation of the convent could 
not be allowed to exist; and greatly to the 
grief of the Mistletoe Queen, Ver Vert was 
condemned to death at the hands of the 
Abbey butcher. 



1 66 French Abbeys 

At his next visit Marguerite told Phihbert 
of the fate of her pet, and he strove to com- 
fort her. 

"The fiesher is a miserly man," he said; 
"he knows that the parrot is very valuable, 
and he could not carry out the command of 
the Abbess. I will search the world over, 
dear lady, until I find Ver Vert and bring him 
back to you." 

Marguerite dried her eyes, and Philibert 
went upon his quest, with all the enthusiasm 
of a young knight -errant. He had not far to 
seek, for on his return to Amboise he saw a 
bird-fancier, with a hoop suspended from his 
neck on which were perched falcons and other 
birds, which he was crying through the streets. 
Even before Philibert realised that there was 
a green parrot among them, he heard his own 
name shrieked; and a shrill falsetto voice 
greeted his ear with the familiar 

" Veni, vent, Philibert, 
Lumen cordium meum, Philibert." 

Running after the vender he purchased the 
lost favourite (though in so doing he parted 
with an entire month's allowance), and 
carried it triumphantly to his lodgings, where 
he attempted to reform the conversation of 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 167 

the graceless outcast by a rigorous course of 
penance and disciphne. Whenever Ver Vert 
repeated the bargemen's oaths the page 
plunged the offender in the cold water butt, 
and then flung him into a dark closet. He 
retaught him the Ave Maria, too, with such 
patient persistency that, according to the 
grants of various sovereign Pontiffs for such 
repetition, Philibert and Ver Vert must have 
gained between them indulgences for up- 
wards of two thousand years. Philibert 
would also have had great credit with his 
landlady for his piety, but for the parrot's 
lamentable lapses into blasphemy, which were 
also attributed by horror-stricken listeners 
to the wileful page. 

With such occupation Philibert solaced his 
loneliness and fed his hopes, often varying the 
sacred words with impassioned repetition of 
the name of Marguerite, for nine years had 
passed since Little Queen Mistletoe had been 
transplanted to France, and a young man's 
heart was beating under the page's velvet 
doublet, a heart eaten with envy, and with 
love stronger than its despair. 



1 68 French Abbeys 

III 

OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL QUEEN MISTLETOE 
WITH A CATERPILLAR AND HOW THE REFORMED 
PARROT CAME TO HIS OWN AGAIN 

Philibert seemed doomed to be the bearer 
of unwelcome messages to the Httle Queen, 
and on his next coming to the convent he 
brought one which pleased her even less than 
the summons for the parrot. 

During the years that had drifted by while 
Marguerite had been in seclusion with the 
Visitandines she had profited by her oppor- 
tunity for study and had outstripped the 
simple nuns in her acquirements, so that 
experts from the outer world were secured 
for her further advancement. Her favourite 
teachers were Jean Bourdichon, illuminator 
and painter of miniatures, and Michel Colomb, 
sculptor, for the young girl was passionately 
fond of all things beautiful. 

Her vexation may therefore be imagined 
when Philibert brought her word that the two 
artists were ordered to Nantes, the one to 
enrich a Book of Hours for the Duchess of 
Brittany, and the other to carve her father's 
tomb. 

The unfortunate page had to bear her pique 
and to listen to unmerited reproaches. 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 169 

"This Anne de Bretagne," Marguerite cried, 
"has robbed me of everything which I cared 
for. She took my father and Ver Vert, and 
now she demands my best -loved teachers. 
She is a bhght on all my joys, a worm, a 
caterpillar. Will no one crush her for me? 
What will she covet next? Will it be you, 
Philibert. Nay, I misdoubt she has sub- 
orned you already, since you only come to 
take my treasures to her." 

The youth flushed, but answered proudly: 

"She can never have me in an3rwise, for I 
am your true servitor until death, though I 
get naught for my fealty but your displeasure. 
If I were rich I would give Michel Colomb 
a commission which would not only take him 
out of the employ of this grasping Duchess, 
but would fulfil a vow made long ago by my 
mother, which for my sake she neglected, to 
the displeasure doubtless of the saints." 

"What was the vow, Philibert? Tell me 
and forgive my hasty tongue." 

"We were at our hunting chateau at Brou 
in Savoy, when my father was dangerously 
wounded by a boar. I shall never forget 
my mother's shriek when they brought the 
litter into the chateau and she saw him, as 
she thought, dying before her. But Saint 



I70 French Abbeys 

Hubert was good, and when she invoked him, 
promising to build an Abbey where my father 
received his hurt if only he recovered, that 
patron of huntsmen so aided the physicians 
that my father was presently well again." 

"And you say that your mother's vow 
was unfulfilled for your sake, Philibert. How 
could that be?" 

"It costs money, most dear Queen, to build 
and endow Abbeys, and, as my father's re- 
venues were not great, my mother laid aside 
of her own for me that my future might be 
well assured. I could not have come to 
the Court of the French King nor have 
known my Queen had my mother not so 
chosen, so I shall never regret her choice, no 
matter what misfortune that unfulfilled vow 
may bring." 

"Bid Messer Colomb come to the cloister," 
said Marguerite. "He is from Burgundy, my 
mother's country, and learned his art by 
carving my ancestors' tombs in Dijon, under 
the great master Claux Sluter. He is my 
hereditary vassal, and owes me service on de- 
mand. He will do anything for me, and he 
shall enrich your mother's Abbey with glorious 
sculpture. Hast thou not marked the ' ' Vision 
of Saint Hubert ' ' over the chapel door at 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 171 

Amboise? He shall better that work, noble 
though it is, for the Abbey at Brou." 

"Nay, dear lady," pled Philibert, "you 
forget that my mother has no commission to 
give." 

"But I — I have certain moneys, Philibert." 

"Most dear and generous mistress, my 
mother could not accept such a gift, nor would 
King Charles suffer thee to give it." 

"And my father," said Marguerite, bitterly, 
"is shortly to wed Anne de Bretagne, and will 
help her rather than me. Said I not that she 
had robbed me of everything?" 

"She may give your father back to you, my 
Queen, and you to him, for there are strange 
rumours afloat." 

" What rumours ? " Marguerite asked 
eagerly, but Philibert answered evasively that 
he paid no attention to the wild stories that 
ran from mouth to mouth, nor must she, but 
believe always that he was her devoted knight, 
ready to serve her in any emergency. He 
turned her thoughts from his unfortunate re- 
mark by telling her how he had found Ver 
Vert, and amused her by an account of his 
trials in endeavouring to reform the reprobate, 
so that he left her smiling; but after he had 
gone her thoughts reverted to this hint of 



172 French Abbeys 

strange rumours. What could they be ? The 
nuns looked at her strangely, some with less 
of deference than formerly, and others with 
an unwonted pity. 

There was war she knew between King 
Charles and the Duchess Anne, for the King 
as her feudal sovereign had insisted that the 
Duchess had no right to marry without his 
consent and carry the fair province of Brit- 
tany out of France to Maximilian of Austria, 
and Marguerite's father had, as in duty bound, 
sent Austrian troops to support his betrothed 
in her stand against the King of France. It 
was a peculiar position in which Marguerite 
found herself, with her father at war with her 
affianced husband ; but she could not see how 
she was to blame or in what way her own for- 
tunes could be affected by these circumstances. 
She was heartily with Charles in this quarrel, 
and hoped that he would compel her father 
to relinquish the Breton Duchess, whom she 
had never desired for a stepmother; and in 
some way, inexplicable to Marguerite, Anne de 
Bretagne knew this and hated her cordially. 

Marguerite's two teachers passed into the 
employ of the Duchess, but Jean Bourdichon, 
returning presently on some errand to Nevers, 
showed Marguerite the illuminations for the 



The Adventures of Ver Vert i73 

Book of Hours which he was executing for 
his new patroness. They were indeed very 
beautiful. Each page was bordered with a 
plant in bloom or in fruitage exquisitely 
painted on a panel of beaten gold. In and 
out of the foliage fluttered gauzy-winged 
dragon-flies or honey-laden bees, while snails 
and beetles, gorgeous butterflies and velvety 
moths, crickets and grasshoppers, and all the 
myriad insect life of the garden, with birds 
and little animals of the wild-wood, disported 
themselves among the flowers. 

Marguerite exclaimed with delight and ad- 
miration as she noted the exquisite pains with 
which each detail was depicted, 

"Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail." 

Suddenly she started violently. 

"What does this mean, Maitre Jean?" she 
cried. "A branch of mistletoe, my own de- 
vice, eaten across by a furry caterpillar? 
Who told her that I called her that?" 

"Not I, noble lady, not I; but some one 
must have told her, for she bade me show it 
to you, and ask you to mark not alone that 
the loathly worm has fangs to gnaw, but that 



174 French Abbeys 

it changes in the fulness of time to a glorious 
butterfly." 

"So this is a studied insult. I wonder, 
Jean Bourdichon, that you had the hardihood 
to bring me her boasts and threats." 

"Alas! sweet mistress, I am not mine own 
m.aster ; but take this as a warning, for indeed 
if no one else has told you what plots are 
hatching, it were well you were prepared, even 
though I lose your favour in the thankless 
duty." 

"Say on, Jean Bourdichon," the girl com- 
manded bravely, but the blood forsook her 
heart when she knew that King Charles had 
met his rebellious subject, Anne de Bretagne, 
and that they had concluded a treaty, whereby 
in spite of the fact that each was otherwise 
contracted, all of their differences were to be 
happily adjusted by speedy marriage. 

The astounding news was quite true, and 
the repudiated Queen Mistletoe was shortly re- 
turned with little ceremony to her equally 
humiliated father. Philibert, who had sought 
and been denied permission to join her modest 
escort, attempting to do so secretly, was ar- 
rested and detained in the donjon of the 
castle of Amboise for several weeks. When 
set at liberty he learned that the Emperor 



174 



;■>. •7lorious 

i wonder, 
.la cne hardihoTid 
......... .,...„... vhreats." • 

listress, I am not mine own 

this as a warning, for indeed 

■ sts are 

'^^''■en 

Mistletoe Border. 

From the " Livre d'Heures " of Anne de Bretagne, preserved 
in the Bib|ioth,eg,ue National at Paris. The illuminations were 
executed by'Tean Bourdichon in the early part of the sixteenth century. 

, whereby 

:.c oi uie lact tnat eacn was otherwise 
-"^■•'d, all of ■i^-^'-'- '■1iB''^rences were to be 
justed marriao-'"', 

:>undint 



ted fathc 



aiju. ueii! ' 'i; ^u tne 

-)f Amboif. 3. When 



Emperor 



\'%1T* Ai»A»*,'44tli1nX 



emwm 







/tamp 





QttmiH^pmtmtu$tm^p 

Jmp fcm0m} ctS>(^fmp 
o^mfinitttMaSmc miiiy 




The Adventures of Ver Vert 175 

Maximilian, stung to the quick by the affront 
put upon him by the French King, had lost 
no time in concluding an alliance with Spain, 
and had affianced Marguerite to the Infant, 
the son of Ferdinand and Isabella. The 
Princess was even now on her way to Madrid 
with her brother; it was to be a double 
marriage, for Maximilian's son Philip was to 
wed the Infanta Joana, and the Netherlands, 
which they had together inherited from their 
mother, were now destined to pass under the 
cruel dominion of Spain. 

But Marguerite's voyage was so tempestu- 
ous as to be considered ill-omened, and she 
was doomed to return shortly, not indeed re- 
jected, but widowed, for the bridegroom 
expectant sickened and died. 

Broken-hearted, as it was supposed, by her 
double disappointment, but in reality with 
hopeless longing and thwarted first love, the 
Princess announced her intention of taking 
the veil, a decision little to the liking of her 
imperial father. 

Nothing but marriage, he argued, could 
drive such a notion from her brain, and there 
came a day when he announced that he had 
arranged a new alliance for her, not with a 
king, indeed, but with the reigning Duke of 



176 French Abbeys 

Savoy, whose possessions adjoined her own, 
and united with them would make a fair 
kingdom. 

Marguerite shook her head. 

' ' I have been too many times betrothed. I 
shall never be wedded." 

"That you shall, my daughter; the agree- 
ment is already signed, for the Duke made the 
first advances, and that immediately on his 
unexpected accession to the crown of Savoy. 
On my word he has sent you a strange be- 
trothal present. His envoy waits. Will you 
receive him ? ' ' 

"Nay," replied Marguerite. "Write the 
Duke that I thank him, but it may not be. 
See, I have written my own epitaph. Let it 
be my answer to the Duke : 

" ' Though twice I was wedded, unfortunate I, 
My doom it was written, a maiden I die.' " ' 

As she spoke there arose an unseemly 
clamour in the antechamber ; prayers mingled 
with imprecations, and then, more startling 
still, the Ave, with Marguerite's name sub- 
stituted for Mary's, repeated with a tender 
intonation : 

» Epitaph written for herself by Marguerite: 
" Cigit Margot, la gente demoiselle 
Qui eut deux maris et se morut pucelle." 



The Adventures of Ver Vert 177 

"Ave, Marguerita, regina angelorum! 

Ave, Marguerita, domina ccelorwrn! 

Ave, Marguerita! Ave, Marguerita! 
Gaude, virgo gloriosa, 
Gaude, gaude, Marguerita!'' 

"What sacrilege is this?" cried the Em- 
peror. But Marguerite, starting to her feet, 
cried : 

"It is Ver Vert! Vent, veni, Ver Vert! 
Vent, Philibert, veni, Philibert." 

A young man, richly dressed in green velvet, 
bearing a parrot on his wrist, entered and 
swept the floor with his jewelled cap. It was 
indeed Philibert, now Duke of Savoy, who had 
come as his own ambassador. But Ver Vert, 
the long desired, was forgotten in that meet- 
ing, and hopped disconsolately from chair to 
chair, fluttering his wings and shrieking, now 
with a supernatural imitation of Marguerite's 
own voice that Philibert was her lumen 
cordium, now with an equally successful 
parody of the Duke's more manly vocalisa- 
tion, declaring that Marguerite was the queen 
of angels and mistress of heaven. 

The reunited lovers did not even hear these 
apposite remarks, learned from their own 
utterances, but gazed enraptured into one 
another's eyes nintil Ver Vert, disgusted at 



178 French Abbeys 

their neglect, changed his role to that of the 
profane bargemen, and the air corruscated 
with maledictions. 

In spite of his sad lapses into language unfit 
for ears polite, Ver Vert lived thereafter the 
life of a pampered favourite, and when he 
died (see Note A) , as it was said, of grief occa- 
sioned by Marguerite's absence, his death and 
devotion were celebrated by the court poet 
of Savoy in a heroic poem of many stanzas, 
called Le Triomphe de VAmant Vert. 




CHAPTER VIII 

THE CHURCH OF BROU 

On her palfrey white the Duchess 
Sat and watched her working train, 

Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
German masons, smiths from Spain. 

Clad in black, on her white palfrey. 

Her old architect beside, 
There they found her in the mountains 

Morn and noon and eventide. 

Round the tombs the carved stone fretwork 

Was at Eastertide put on. 
Then the Duchess closed her labours 

And she died at the St. John. 

Matthew Arnold. 

IN the obscure town of Brou in northern 
Savoy stands possibly the most beautiful 
example of late Gothic architecture to be 
found in all France. It came into being in 
that transitional period in the early sixteenth 

179 



i8o French Abbeys 

century, when French genius was fired to 
emulate, not copy, the newly imported Italian 
Renaissance. 

This exquisite church has been sung by en- 
thusiasts, and analysed as a model of its kind 
in scientific monographs. It was so thor- 
oughly appreciated even at the time of the 
Revolution, when so much that was beautiful 
was i-uthlessly destroyed, that it was one of 
the few monuments protected and ordained 
to be kept up at the expense of the state. 

It is only the deserted chapel of a vanished 
and forgotten Benedictine Abbey, but wealth 
was lavished here without stint, and the most 
skilful citizens laboured together for years 
to make it the masterpiece which it is. 

All the lines in the construction of this 
marvel flow together with the grace of living, 
growing things culminating in curves not only 
delight -giving in themselves, but governed by 
exact law, while every detail is enriched with 
a lacework of intricate carving not to be 
rivalled in prodigality by the ornament upon 
the. jewel-box of a Princess. 

And such a casket it really is, built to con- 
tain the greatest treasure of an Emperor's 
daughter. 

We read that after three years of blissful 



The Church of Brou i8i 

wedded life, the Duke of Savoy, Philibert le 
Beau, was killed while hunting, and that his 
widow. Marguerite of Austria, devoted the re- 
mainder of her life to building him one of the 
most beautiful monuments in all the world. 

That she succeeded few who have seen the 
Church of Brou will deny. ' ' How great must 
have been the love of this woman for this 
man," is the thought of every one who stands 
beside their glorious tombs. 

It was the sculptor Michel Colomb who 
fashioned them, the same who designed the 
tomb at Nantes for the Duke of Brittany, at 
the command of his daughter, the Duchess 
Anne. But at Brou he returned to an earlier 
style, which he had learned while working on 
the ' ' sepultures de feuz messeigneurs les dues de 
Bourgoigne,'" when he was the apprentice of 
Maitre Claux Sluter at Dijon ; he was working 
now for a descendant of those nobles who 
wrote "Rash" and "Bold " and ''Sans Peur'' 
after their names, no man gainsaying their 
right to those titles. 

In the centre of the choir stands the mag- 
nificent double tomb of Philibert. Within 
the lower portion, partly concealed by the 
rich canopy, his corpse lies naked and stark, 
as was the ghastly custom of the time, a 



1 82 French Abbeys 

fashion so starthngly followed in the tombs of 
the Abbey of St. Denis. But upon the upper 
story, as it were on a royal couch, he lies as 
in sleep regally robed, while weeping loves 
hold his helmet and gaze mournfully at his 
beautiful face. 

The Antinous of his time, he was called, and 
the resemblance to the demigod of the Vatican 
is especially striking in the lovely curves of the 
mouth and chin. His face is turned to the 
left, where Marguerite's own tomb was placed, 
like his own in general design, for she, too, is 
shown in state robes, and in the alcove be- 
neath in a simple shroud over which her long 
hair ripples to her feet in glorious abundance. 

Her motto is carved upon a twisted band- 
erole, ''Fortune, mfortune, forte une" ("In 
fortune and misfortune one woman is brave"). 
It was no empty boast, as the employ of her 
years of widowhood in wise government of 
the Netherlands testified. Philibert's motto, 
" FERT," many times repeated, was that of the 
Order of the Annunciade. The meaning of the 
letters is a mystery. Some maintain that they 
are the initials of the words, "Fortitudo ejus 
Rhodum tenuit " ("His valour held Rhodes "), 
in allusion to the defence of that island by an 
early Duke of Savoy. Lately the letters lent 



oriiijS' Oi 
. .ne upper 
i, he lies as 
;?ping loves 
';ully at his 



Tomb of Philibert le Beau 
in the Church of Brou 

abunda..^.,. . 
•'sted band- 
infortune, fo 

lidii 13 Grave ) . 

■ 'nplo};^ of her 

TnTiient of 



The Church of Brou 183 

themselves to the motto ' ' Fiat Emmanuel Rex 
tuus " ("Make Emmanuel thy King ") ; but it 
is very possible that they simply form the 
Latin word for "He brings," — benefits of 
various kinds being understood. To Mar- 
guerite he brought joy and love for three years 
only, but the husband who died at twenty- 
four was mourned all her life. 

Following established custom, Philibert 
should have been entombed in the royal Ab- 
bey of Hautecombe on the lovely lake of Le 
Bourget — for this had been the burial-place 
of the Princes of Savoy from time immemorial. 

But such community even in death could 
not be endured by Marguerite. She must 
have her dead all to herself, recognising the 
right of but one other to share his long home, 
as living she had shared his love. For there 
is another tomb in the church, a little apart 
from the others, in a canopied niche on the 
right hand of Philibert. It is that of his 
mother, Margaret of Bourbon, who had vowed 
to build an abbey on this spot on the recovery 
of her husband from a wound received in 
hunting. She had never carried out that vow, 
and when her son was killed in the same way, 
his widow may well have imagined that Saint 
Hubert claimed his dues. 



1 84 French Abbeys 

During her long residence in France, as the 
betrothed of the Dauphin, Marguerite had 
learned to appreciate that wonderful revival 
of art of which Michel Colomb was one of the 
foremost examples. Anne de Bretagne and 
her husband Charles the Eighth now posed 
as the most munificent of art patrons; and 
Marguerite's love for beauty was only equalled 
by her hatred for these two : the man who had 
repudiated her, and the woman who was her 
successful rival. She would not be outdone 
by them, and Michel Colomb was ordered to 
surpass all work which he had previously exe- 
cuted under their patronage. So that hatred 
and mortified pride joined hands with love 
and sorrow and piety in building this abbey 
church. 

Another shared with the King and Queen 
of France in Marguerite's resentment. The 
great Cardinal, George d'Amboise, had 
brought about their marriage, and was now 
Prime Minister of the kingdom. He, too, was 
a patron of art, and was building at this time 
his superb Chateau of Gaillon. It was Mar- 
guerite's pleasure to call Michel Colomb and 
other of his favourite artists from his employ, 
and to thwart him not only in his private 
fancies but also in diplomatic matters of 



The Church of Brou 185 

great moment. She persuaded Henry VIII. 
of England to enter into a league with 
her against France, and outwitted Cardinal 
d'Amboise in the Treaty of Cambrai, and 
Louise de Savoie (mother of Louis XIL) in 
the Paix des Dames. As Garnier wrote of 
her: "No more active or intelligent minister 
[for the Emperor Charles V.] could have been 
found, endowed with genius, trained in ad- 
versity, the most dangerous and obstinate 
of the enemies of France." 

In the intervals of her many duties she 
visited the growing abbey church. It was 
more than her recreation from state affairs, 
it was her ruling passion. Her architect was 
Maistre Loys Van Boglem, the best in the 
Low Countries, and her nephew, the Em- 
peror Charles V. (for whom she governed the 
Netherlands so well), sent her the cleverest 
artificers of Spain and Austria and Italy. 
The radiant stained glass alone, or the mar- 
vellous wood-carving of the choir stalls would 
have made the church famous. Philibert had 
died in 1504. Marguerite began her task two 
years later, and continued it for twenty-four 
years. At last it was finished, at a cost of two 
million two hundred thousand francs, and 
twelve friars were installed in the little Abbey 



1 86 French Abbeys 

to pray for the souls of those whose ashes it 
enshrined. 

It is said that Marguerite was perusing a 
holy book, the Chronicles of Fontevrault, when 
the news was brought her that the Abbey was 
completed. She had just read the passage: 

"Understand, my love, that I am in great 
peace, but I know not how to enter into ful- 
ness of joy without thee. Prepare thee and 
come at thy quickest, that we may present 
ourselves together before the Lord." 

Looking up from her book the Duchess 
greeted her old architect, and stepping im- 
pulsively forward threw to the floor and 
stepped upon a wine-glass which a page was 
offering her. The broken glass cut through 
the delicate satin slipper, inflicting a wound 
which speedily gangrened. Amputation was 
considered necessary, and a preparation of 
opium was administered. But from that 
sleep Marguerite never woke, and Michel 
Colomb prepared her couch by the side of the 
lover of her youth, in the abbey-church of 
Brou. 

" So rest for ever — rest O princely Pair! 
Or if ye wake let it be then when rain 
Doth rustlingly above your heads complain 
On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls, 




6 o 



m ■ 





The Church of Brou 187 

Shedding her pensive light at intervals 

The moon through the clerestory windows shines, 

And the wind washes through the mountain pines. 

Then gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, 

The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, 

"Hush," ye will say, "it is eternity. 

This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these 

The columns of the heavenly palaces." 

And in the sweeping of the wind your ear 

The passage of the Angels' wings will hear. 

And on the lichen-crusted leads above 

The rustle of the eternal rain of love." 

Matthew Arnold, 




CHAPTER IX 

THE FLAGEOLET OF SAINT BRUNO 

A LEGEND OF LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE 

I 

Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come 
To the Carthusians' world-famed home, 
Where ghost-like in the deepening night 
Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white; 
The chapel where no organ's peal 
Invests the stern and naked prayer; 
With penitential cries they kneel 
And wrestle, rising then with bare 
And white uplifted faces stand 
Passing the Host from hand to hand. 

Stanza from La Grande Chartreuse, 

Matthew Arnold. 

" TPHE silent courts" of La Grande Char- 
* treuse echoed with unwonted con- 
fusion on a certain spring morning of the 
year 1562, as hurrying feet, smothered ejacula- 

1S8 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 189 

tions — not of prayer, — and terrified faces pro- 
claimed the panic of the peaceful monks. 
Until now through all the tempests of war 
which had beaten upon France the monastery 
had remained inviolate, protected by its in- 
accessibility. All around it were the bastions 
of the Alpine ranges, while the wild beasts 
were the sentinels of the monks and the 
avalanches their artillery. 

And what could pillaging soldiers hope to 
find in this austere retreat ? The Carthusians 
followed the strict rule of poverty which Saint 
Bruno had enjoined upon them. Naked 
stone corridors connected the tiny houses and 
garden plots in which each member of the 
community laboured and prayed in the most 
rigorous self-denial and in absolute solitude. 
Even the apartment of the General ^ of the 
order exhibited the same severity. And yet 
the information which had just been brought 
them was true. Captain Biron had set out 
from Grenoble that morning with the avowed 
purpose of sacking the Abbey of La Grande 
Chartreuse, and the ferocious Baron des 
Adrets was following with the main body of 
the Huguenot troops. 

It was the too famous Chartreuse liqueur 

1 The Superior of the Cathusians bears the title of General. 



iQo French Abbeys 

and the exaggerated report of riches amassed 
by its sale which had attracted the plunderers. 
The common soldiers had visions of cellars 
filled with casks and tuns, as 

" Silent and brown externally 
As any Carthusian monk might be." 

The leaders thought of the hidden gold 
which torture could reveal, and the Baron des 
Adrets hoped that the monks might be un- 
willing to deliver it on first demand, for in 
cruelty he was a madman, his mania taking a 
fixed form, a fiendish delight in watching 
human beings fall from a great height. 
When a youth he had seen a friend, with whom 
he was hunting, roll over the edge of a cliff in 
the embrace of a bear. The spectacle had 
naturally made an immense impression upon 
him, but, strange to say, not one of horror. It 
thrilled him with such pleasure that he caused 
it to be re-enacted many times, forcing the 
garrisons of surrendered fortresses to leap from 
the platforms of their highest tow^ers, w^hile 
he laughed at the contortions of the falling 
bodies. 

Little wonder that the' monks of La Grande 
Chartreuse were panic-stricken, since this 
monster was their expected guest. 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 191 

The very reverend Dom Jerome, General 
of the order, dispersed the community, send- 
ing them in groups to different Carthusian 
houses, while he himself remained to face the 
enemy, as he fancied, alone. But as he 
closed the Abbey gate on the last of the fugi- 
tives, a young monk called Aloysius came 
from the porter's lodge. 

"I will keep the gate, my Father," he said, 
"and will endeavour to entertain these pil- 
grims suitably. I beseech you to preserve to 
us your valuable life. Fadet, the goatherd, 
who distanced the Huguenots in bringing us 
the news of their coming, knows every path 
across the mountains, and will guide you over 
Les Echelles to the Commandery of the 
Knights of St. John. You little know to 
what a devil incarnate you submit yourself in 
awaiting the approach of Des Adrets." 

"I know," replied Dom Jerome, "for I 
know your history. And since you have 
already experienced the cruelty of this man, 
why do you remain? Is it to protect me 
from danger and insult, or is it that you may 
repay evil with forgiveness?" 

The young man met the gaze of his superior 
doggedly and shook his head. "I am pow- 
erless to prevent your lingering," said the 



192 French Abbeys 

General sadly. "A great crisis in your life 
is approaching. Let me at the close of this 
ordeal take you to my heart as my son." 

Aloysius knelt. His face bent toward the 
earth was convulsed with emotion, but he 
made no reply. His superior had demanded 
too much. 

No one at La Grande Chartreuse but Dom 
Jerome knew the history of the young monk. 
The General had brought him to the monas- 
tery on his return from a temporary absence. 
For months even the servitor who passed 
the food through the wickets was not aware 
of the presence of a guest in the apartment of 
his superior, but knowing how abstemious 
was the habit of the General, rejoiced that his 
appetite had returned, and that he now ate 
like a Christian. It was long before the 
stranger was prepared to accept the peace of 
the cloister; but a day came when he fell at 
the feet of his preserver and begged to be ad- 
mitted into the Order, and the brotherhood 
were ware of a novice with a face expressive 
of deep bitterness disfigured by recent burns. 

It was at the siege of Valence by the 
Huguenots that the Baron des Adrets had set 
his seal on the countenance of the young man. 

The city, over-confident in the strength of 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 193 

its fortifications, had laughed at the attacking 
Calvinists, and on the very night on which it 
was captured a ball was in progress, in an old 
palace whose foundations were bathed by the 
Rhone. All of the younger members of the 
Catholic nobility were present, and among 
them an officer in the command of the Due 
de Guise, who was to be known later as 
Brother Aloysius. With him was his be- 
trothed, the beautiful daughter of the Comte 
de la Mothe. 

The attack had been made in another quar- 
ter of the city, and the young people, accus- 
tomed to the sound' of cannonading, had not 
realised in the midst of their festivity that 
Valence had been taken by assault. As the 
Huguenots marched toward the brilliantly 
lighted chateau Des Adrets was asked by one 
of his captains in what way the dancing was 
to be stopped. 

"Not only let them dance," he replied, 
"but force them to do so. Do you see that 
balcony overhanging the river? Remove the 
iron balustrade — " He whispered further 
orders in his subordinate's ear, and then 
gloatingly watched their execution from a 
small boat in midstream. 

His soldiers entered the ballroom, the 



194' French Abbeys 

dances were interrupted for an instant, then 
while the heavy balustrade fell into the river 
the musicians struck up a quicker measure, 
and the waltzers, driven by the pikemen 
through the open casements, whirled down- 
ward to their death. 

The captain added a brilliant touch to the 
spectacle. As the young girls passed him he 
set fire with a torch to their filmy dresses, 
and they shot like circling fireworks into the 
black waters. 

Aloysius and his betrothed had fallen thus, 
locked in each other's arms. So, in the bleak 
morning, they were found, cast upon the bank 
farther down the stream, Aloysius uncon- 
scious, severely burned, but still clasping to 
his breast the charred corpse of his beloved. 

H 

Lord, I have fasted, I have prayed, 
And sackcloth has my girdle been. 

To purge my soul I have essayed 
With hunger blank and vigil keen. 

O God of Mercy! Why am I 

Still haunted by the self I fly? 

R. H. Froude. 

It was in this sore trouble that Dom Jerome 
had found the young man, and had brought 



The Flasreolet of Saint Bruno 195 



"& 



him to La Grande Chartreuse, in the hope 
that the grandeur of the encirchng mountains, 
the calm of sohtude and silence, would work 
their healing influence upon his tortured spirit 
and prepare it for the ministrations of re- 
ligion. And surely this was no baseless dream, 
for the most unimpressible of tourists who 
visits La Grande Chartreuse to-day cannot 
fail to be profoundly moved by the beauty 
and sublimity of its long approach. 

As his open carriage plunges into the twi- 
light of the heavily wooded gorge, tapestried 
with luxuriant moss, the repose of the ever- 
lasting hills settles upon him, the charm deep- 
ening into mystery and a haunting sense of 
the occult and supernatural. 

For startling surprises are discovered at 
every turn of the road; now the Bridge of 
Saint Bruno springs across the ravine far 
above our heads, its single arch abutting from 
opposite crags, — and now the road is tunnelled 
on one side under the overhanging cliff, or 
built out upon the other, a narrow shelf above 
the precipice. 

The cliffs close more narrowly upon the de- 
file as he ascends, the precipice sinks to an 
abyss which his brain refuses to fathom, its 
frothing torrent which no man or horse could 



196 French Abbeys 

stem showing as a narrow ribbon; while the 
firs extend their blasted arms at more gro- 
tesque angles; and the pines, shooting higher 
in a vain attempt to reach the light, cast 
waving shadows, — which seem to be those of 
dryads flitting noiselessly at his approach. 
All the poetry that may lie latent in his soul 
is stirred as by enchantment. La Grande 
Chartreuse has taken him to her heart, and 
he hears in imagination the chant of the Pil- 
grims as in Tannhduser, and feels that he is 
himself a pilgrim to a remarkable region, 
where enthusiasts have believed that they 
saw visions and have led lives which were 
themselves miracles. 

Nor is the first view of the Abbey an anti- 
climax to this impressive prelude. 

The sharp peaked roofs of the long line of 
chateau-like btiildings, recalling those of the 
older portion of Fontainebleau, are backed 
against a bleak escarpment of naked rock (for 
the vast belt of dark green forest lies for the 
most part far beneath), and the serrated sil- 
houette of grey mass behind the monastery 
seems to repeat and intensify its pointed roofs. 
It is as though another chateau, of giants or 
demigods, held the Abbey as a nursling in its 
embrace, protecting but not imprisoning it; 




< c 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 197 

for the range sinks suddenly to give a mag- 
nificent view of "the Grand Som," whose 
white glacier glitters like a staircase to heaven. 

Gradually the potency of this marvellous 
environment restored the mind of the novice 
Aloysius to its normal poise, and the strenuous 
labour of felling trees contributed to his phy- 
sical cure. But his superior, Dom Jerome, 
who agonised over every soul in his care 
"until Christ should be formed in it, " was not 
satisfied with the spiritual attitude of his 
ward. He could see that he was funda- 
mentally unchanged, his calm was merely 
self-control, and beneath the surface love and 
hatred still burned like fires in a smouldering 
volcano. 

The ascent of the Grand Som was permitted 
once a month to every member of the com- 
munity. "For the prospect from its summit, ' ' 
says a Carthusian writer, "of dome rising 
beyond dome like an encampment of arch- 
angels, rarely failed to fill the beholder with 
heavenly ecstasy." 

Aloysius climbed the mountain more fre- 
quently than his associates, but experienced 
no religious transports. He confessed to 
Dom Jerome that had Saint Bruno, instead of 
fleeing from the world, sought a spot in which 



198 French Abbeys 

his heart must find loneliness most intoler- 
able and cry out most passionately for its be- 
loved he could not have made a better choice. 

"You are still self-centred, my son," said 
the General kindly. "You are absorbed in 
your own grief. Nothing can extricate you 
from that slough but a contemplation of the 
sufferings of the Saviour." 

Aloysius performed mechanically the pen- 
ances imposed upon him. The Via Cruets and 
midnight vigils before the Crucified left him 
alike with dry eyes and a heart of stone. 
Dom Jerome was disappointed, but not dis- 
heartened. Another chord remained to be 
touched, that of human sympathy, and Aloy- 
sius was sent to minister in a hospice for 
lepers. But the loathsome objects which he 
saw there filled him with such revolt against 
a Deity who could permit such hideous suffer- 
ing that Dom Jerome hastily remanded him 
to his wood-chopping. The heart of the 
reverend Father in God was filled with acute 
sadness, for he had now exhausted all the 
remedies in his pharmacopoeia for the cure of 
souls; but at this very juncture he noted the 
change which he had longed for in the de- 
meanour of his ward, and wondered as to its 
cause, until the monk in charge of the timber- 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 199 

cutting made his report. He grieved to say 
that he had discovered Aloysitis seated by 
the side of a young goatherd, showing him 
how to play upon his Pan pipes. He further 
explained that he had watched the offender 
unseen, and that Aloysius had kept the letter 
of the rule of silence, not speaking to the lad, 
but teaching him by patient pantomime how 
to evoke tuneful strains from his rustic in- 
strument, and his lesson ended had left him 
with the prescribed Carthusian greeting, 
''Memento mori," accompanied by a shock- 
ingly playful pat upon the shoulder. 

To the surprise of the monk, his superior 
had not only condoned this breach of disci- 
pline, but had ordered him to pass over any 
similar offence. 

Scarcely was the General alone before he 
opened with trembling eagerness a small 
closet in the wall. It contained a few relics 
of Saint Bruno, the plan of the monastery 
believed to have been communicated to him 
in a vision at Rome, and a still more revered 
object carefully wrapped in a linen cloth. 
Saint Bruno when locating the site of the 
monastery had followed strains of celestial 
music, and on the spot where the corner-stone 
of his chapel had been laid the workmen had 



200 French Abbeys 

found a flageolet. It was this instrument 
which Dom Jerome now regarded reverently. 
There was nothing to mark it as supernatural ; 
it was an ordinary ebony flute a bee with six 
silver keys, and as the General cautiously 
breathed into the mouthpiece the tones came 
true and sweet, for it was in perfect condition. 
He sank upon his knees beseeching Saint 
Bruno to bless the design which he had 
formed, and hiding the flageolet within his 
robe, strode rapidly from the monastery. 

That evening, Fadet the goatherd was over- 
joyed at finding the flageolet on the hard 
pallet of his lonely cabin. He carried it to 
Aloysius on the following day, taxing him 
with the gift. The novice shook his head, for 
it was a surprise to him as well, but the 
General of the stern order smiled as the notes 
of the instrument were borne to him from 
the neighbouring pines. 

In teaching Fadet Aloysius had found an 
interest outside of himself, and the General 
knew that his salvation was assured. 

And now into this haven of peace, this 
sanctuary of a rescued soul, the fiend who had 
wrought so much misery had penetrated, and 
the fires of hell, which Dom Jerome fondly be- 



Saint Bruno Receiving the Design for the 
Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse. 

From the painting by E. Le Sueur in the Louvre. 
(By permission of Dornach, Paris.) 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 201 

lieved had been extinguished in the heart of 
his spiritual child, flamed forth with new 
intensity. 

In the narrowest portion of the gorge up 
which winds the road to La Grande Char- 
treuse there shoots almost perpendicularly 
from the precipice a pinnacle of rock called 
the Needle. It would seem that some god 
had cleft it from the equally vertical wall of 
cliff, to afford the scantiest possible opening 
for the road. 

This opening, the Needle's Eye, the monks 
had barred by double iron gates, capped by a 
defending tower (no longer existing, but de- 
scribed in ancient manuscripts as the ''Fort- 
alacium de VCEillet,'' — " The Little Fort of the 
Eyelet"). 

The fortified port was dwarfed to insigni- 
ficance by the tremendous obelisk at its side, 
which dominated it by a hundred and twenty 
feet. 

The surest footed chamois had never scaled 
the sides of this natural spire and the eagles 
built securely in its crevices. 

Dom Jerome met the invading force at this 
point, hauling up the iron portcullis for the 
troops and bidding them pass freely on to the 
monastery in whose refectory Aloysius had 



202 French Abbeys 

spread an ample collation. But Des Adrets 
halted his command and gazed fascinated at 
the Needle. 

" It is as if some steeple had run away from 
its cathedral," he said to one of his officers. 
"Ah, Biron, if I could once see a man leap 
from that height ! " 

"Inconceivable, Baron, for first the man 
would have to climb to the top, a manifestly 
impossible feat." 

The Baron sighed assent, and his eye fell 
upon the Carthusian General and the monk 
Aloysius standing in the Eyelet. "Welcome 
to our poor house," said Dom Jerome, bowing 
deeply, but Aloysius stood the straighter, 
with folded arms, staring at the Baron. 

"How much farther must I ride before I 
reach it?" asked the Baron with an oath. 
"Have you nothing to drink here? I have 
the thirst of the damned." 

"I anticipated as much," said Aloysius, 
"and have brought of our best elixir. A 
cask of green Chartreuse is broached at the 
monastery, but this flask of our oldest and 
best I selected especially for your excellency." 

As he spoke, Aloysius filled a glass with 
such nervousness that Des Adrets 's brows 
drew together in a scowl of suspicion. 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 203 

"Prepared especially for me," he said 
mockingly. ' ' Are you willing, young man, to 
drink my health in this elixir which you have 
so amiably concocted?" 

Aloysius bowed and poured a second glass. 
"If your excellency will join me, I will drink 
with pleasure," he replied. "I prepare no 
cup for another which I am not willing to 
share." 

Dom Jerome's hand closed upon his arm 
with a grip like that of iron. "Pardon me, 
Baron," he said, "but you come in such un- 
usual guise that I can well understand your 
demand for a guarantee of your safety in our 
hospitality. Let me have the honour of act- 
ing as your cup-bearer and of tasting this 
liqueur. ' ' He lifted the glass to his lips, gazing 
at the same time earnestly at Aloysius, who 
answered his unspoken question frankly. 

"You may drink it in safety, reverend 
Father," he said. "I wrestled through that 
temptation, and it is not poisoned." 

But Des Adrets heard only the last word. 
"Poisoned!" he repeated. "I thought so. 
You seem uncommonly willing to die, and 
you shall have your wish." 

"Baron," besought Dom Jerome, "you 
misunderstand. See, I drink the liqueur with 



204 French Abbeys 

iiivpuiiit y. This )'oung man is innocent of any 
attempt to harm you ; and yet he has already 
experienced your severity. He was among 
those who leapt into the Rhone at Valence. 
You will not condemn hin\ twice to death." 

*'I died twice that night," said Aloysius, 
"when the one I loved died in my anus. Let 
him do his worst ; he can but send me to her. ' ' 

"You shall have your choice, or at least 
your chance," Dcs Adrcts replied with a 
sneer. "That is a in-ctty chiu-ch spire you 
have yonder, but it lacks its tinial. If you 
can set iipon its summit the iron cross which 
I see \i]x>n this gate 3"ou shall be mitouched 
by me or by my troops \\hcn }ani come 
down." 

'"T is a fair pix)position," approved Cap- 
tain Biron. "If your life is worth anything 
to you, young man, earn it." 

Aloysius looked at his superior and smiled 
bitterly. "Pray for nty soul, my General," he 
said sitnply, and prepared for the task. 

A soldier accompanied him to the convent 
for such things as he deemed requisite, and he 
returned promptly to the spot. Placing him- 
self on the side of the Needle farthest from the 
monastery he drew from his bosom a pigeon 
which ho had taken from her nest, and attach- 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 205 

ing one end of a bobbin of thread to a foot, 
let her go free. The bird shot up into the air, 
circled once, and then flew toward its home. 
"Shoot her," Aloysius cried to the crossbow- 
men, and the pigeon fell dead at their feet. 
Running to the spot, Aloysius took u]) the 
thread and pulled it steadily. It was of stout 
flax, and had fallen, as he had calculated that 
it would, across a narrow ledge near the point 
of the Needle. He had fastened a stout cord 
with a slip-noose to the thread, and skilfully 
manipulating the line, the noose presently 
encircled the upper portion of the X-^innacle, 
and was pulled taut and firm. It would bear 
his weight, and with a x^ouch slung over his 
shoulder containing the iron cross and some 
tools, he began the perilous ascent. 

As he pressed his bare feet to the slippery 
rock and grasped the cord, he turned to Dom 
Jerome. "I confess, my General, peccavi!'' 

"And I grant you absolution," the other 
replied; but as a look of ecstasy illumined 
the penitent's face, Dom Jerome hastily added : 
"I absolve and remit all sins of your x^ast life 
up to this present; but when you have com- 
pleted your task and fixed the sign of our 
redemption on that height, add not the crime 
of suicide to your account, but come down to 



2o6 French Abbeys 

your duties and your penance, and God be 
with you." 

Steadily, carefully, Aloysius climbed, now 
aiding himself by the rope, now daringly 
making his way without its help, scaring the 
eagles from their eyries and sending particles 
of stone crashing with startling reverberations 
into the ravine below. He was watched in 
utter silence until he reached the summit, and 
the faint clink of his hammer was heard upon 
the rock. Then the cross rose, and the 
Huguenot soldiers for the first and last time 
in their lives threw up their caps and cheered 
the sacred symbol, or rather the achievement 
of the daring artisan. 

Then steadying himself by the cross with 
one arm Aloysius stood upright and looked, 
not downward, but as though he saw a vision 
into heaven. 

Des Adrets leaped and capered like a mad- 
man. "Jump!" he cried. "Jump, and be 
damned ! " 

Dom Jerome extended his arms with an 
appealing cry, — "My son, my son!" but 
Aloysius neither heard nor saw them, for he 
was wavering under the influence of a great 
temptation. It was the same which the arch 
fiend dared to present to the sinless Christ. 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 207 

The vertigo in the brain of the dazed monk 
reinforced the desperation in his heart, and 
he heard all around him the mocking voices: 
"Cast thyself down. Cast thyself down!" 
He wavered for an instant, and seemed to be 
preparing himself for the fatal leap, when 
clear and sweet a strain of music thrilled 
through the air, piercing it like an arrow, and 
reaching the dizzy brain of the man upon the 
Needle's point. 

"Play! play! Blow for your life, Fadet!" 
cried Dom Jerome; and the goatherd blew, 
his heart in his throat, the notes penetratingly 
shrill, but discordant now, for he was too 
excited to mind his stops. 

Aloysius heard the yearning message and 
stood transfixed. He had thought himself 
unloved and unneeded in the world, but those 
false notes told him the truth, — little Fadet 
both loved and needed his teacher. With that 
revelation his own life became precious to 
him, and with calm determination he started 
upon a descent infinitely more perilous than 
the upward climb. 

Des Adrets, realising that Aloysius had 
decided to attempt to retrace his steps, burst 
into a volley of oaths. 

"Shoot him!" he commanded, but not a 



2o8 French Abbeys 

man stirred to exectite the order, and Captain 
Biron sainted. 

"So please you, sir, it will not be necessary. 
He can never reach the ground in safety." 

"You are right," Des Adrets admitted; 
' ' and it is more exciting to watch the fool try 
the impossible. There, look! look! The cord 
has been worn through by that shaip rock. 
He is falling ! No, by the Mass, he has lodged 
in that pine! He is still scrambling down! 
I have not had such enjoyment in a year, for 
he is doomed. He has wrenched his wrist, and 
it hangs limp. Ah ! At last he has leapt ! ' ' 

But the distance was trifling, and Aloysius, 
landing on marshy ground, was unhurt. 

"Shoot him! Shoot him!" yelled Des 
Adrets, as the novice staggered to his feet. 

"Baron, he has our word," protested Biron. 
"We are jointly responsible for what is done 
on this expedition, and the word of Biron at 
least shall not be broken in the presence of 
his soldiers. Sergeant, give the order to 
march to the monastery. All of the Char- 
treuse liqueur is not poisoned, I fancy. If 
the Reverend Father-General will oblige us 
still further as cup-bearer and taster we may 
find other entertainment as good in its way 
as the performance of yonder acrobat." 



The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 209 

Dom Jerome waved his hand to Aloysius, 
or so the latter imagined; but when he 
reached the Gate of the Eyelet there was no 
one waiting to receive him but Fadet. 

"The General bade me take you to the 
cave where I pen the goats," sobbed the boy, 
hysterical with joy; "and we are to remain 
hidden there till he comes for us." 

"And we shall have enough to do," replied 
Aloysius, masking his emotion. "You must 
practise many times that jig which you blub- 
bered forth while I was upon the Needle, for 
you played it very vilely, little Fadet, very 
vilely indeed." 




CHAPTER X 



FLEUR D'EPINE 



A LEGEND OF THE BOYHOOD OF SAINT LOUIS 



(From undiscovered memoirs of the Sieur de Joinville) 



r^ERTES it is a fair Abbey, that of Saint 
^— ^ Denis, and a merry life as a lad I led 
therein as pensionnaire of its school for noble 
youths. Here for a time my late royal master, 
Louis IX. of France, then a lad of eleven 
years, was my schoolfellow, and here we con- 
tracted the intimacy which later blossomed 
on his part into a confidence overweeningly 
disproportioned to my talents, but not to my 
affection. 

True, in those days I made no display of 
the love I really bore him, but contrari- 
wise, as the manner of boys is, for I was 
a sad scapegrace, and he with his seraphic 



Fleur d'Epine 211 

beauty and spiritual nature was even then 
too heavenly-minded for this present evil 
world. 

I mind me in this connection of an adven- 
ture which threw all the monastery into a 
nine days' wonder and well-nigh cost the life 
of a very worthy man. 

It had to do in the first place with the theft 
of that masterpiece of the goldsmith's art, the 
vase which the Abbot Suger left to the mon- 
astery ; a vase of porphyry, mounted with the 
golden head and wings and claws of some 
great bird. It was commonly held to figure 
forth the cock of St. Peter, the same that by 
its crowing waked that cowardly saint to 
repentance, and yet it bore no so living a 
likeness to such a fowl. 

This precious and venerated object had its 
place upon the high altar of the church be- 
neath the oriflamme, the pennon of the 
Abbey; and there lacked not great hue and 
cry when upon a certain morning it was dis- 
covered to be missing. The most diligent in- 
vestigation availed nothing, for though a 
window in the apse was broken, the orifice was 
too high and too small for a robber to have 
effected an entrance thereby, and all the doors 
were bolted. 



212 French Abbeys 

When all the pensionnaires were convened 
and adjured to confess if we knew aught con- 
cerning the disappearance of this treasure, 
Prince Louis arose and told how he had seen 
the sacred cock take flight from the altar of 
itself, soaring through the opening in the 
window, and that he following had witnessed 
it make covert in the bosom of a stranger at 
the foot of the Abbey garden. 

This statement was so extraordinary that 
those who heard, knowing that the con- 
scientious child would have died rather than 
have told a lie, had no other resource than to 
believe that he had dreamed what he related. 
Still, the vision coming so apt upon the dis- 
appearance of the vase, the Abbot questioned 
him closely. 

"At what time was it, sweet Prince, that 
thou sawest the bird fly away?" 

"At midnight, my Lord, for the bell had 
but struck the hour." 

"And how cotildst thou, in th)^ bed, have 
seen what passed in the church ? ' ' 

"So please you, my Lord, I was not in my 
bed, but had come into the church, following 
an apparition of the blessisd Saint Denis, who 
awakened me and bade me do so." 

The Abbot shook his head. "Dear child," 




(E O 




Fleur d'Epine 213 

he asked, "what said the saint, and how 
looked his features?" 

"He was all in white, my Lord, but he had 
no face, for thou knowest that it was after his 
head w^as chopped off that he came to this 
Abbey. His voice came from his midst, and 
he bade me follow the cock of Saint Peter, 
for beneath the spot where it would alight I 
should find buried the true and holy crown 
of thorns." 

"And didst thou find it, thou blessed inno- 
cent?" 

' ' Nay, my Lord, but the bird hovered over 
the great eglantine by the garden wall, which 
hath doubtless sprung from the sacred briarr 
wreath, and there in its shadow awaiting my 
coming was one of my human thorns." 

"What meanest thou, sweet Prince, by thy 
human thorns ? ' ' 

"My wretched subjects, Sir Abbot, whom 
I must change to roses, as Brother Ambrosius 
taught me in the legend of The Eglantine of 
Caiphas.'" 

"Tell me the legend, dear child," com- 
manded the Abbot, "for I mind it not." 

"At the time of the passion of our Lord," 
said the Prince, in his sweet child's voice, 
"there grew in Jerusalem, in the garden of 



2 14 French Abbeys 

the high-priest, a wild-rose tree, Hke unto the 
one in our garden, save that it had never 
blossomed. 

"It was from its briary stalks that the 
biaital soldiers plaited the crown of thorns. 
But when the eglantine drank the precious 
blood a new sap swelled within its savage 
veins and a thorn changed to flower. And 
even as the petals of the rose caressed the face 
of our Lord there was borne to his ear the 
confession of the penitent thief, that human 
thorn changed to a rose of Paradise. 

"And ever since whenever a soul is saved, 
a thorn is changed to a rose on the briary 
branches of the eglantine wherever it may 
grow. 

"Brother Ambrosius told me, moreover, 
that a King's wicked subjects were his thorns, 
that for the most part they were wicked be- 
cause they were wretched, and that if I made 
my people happier, and so better, in good 
time all the eglantines in France would be- 
come thornless." 

"Brother Ambrosius hath distraught thy 
sensitive mind with his mystical legends," the 
Abbot declared angrily. "Sweet Prince, it is 
but a dream. There was no man, and the 
bird flew not." 



Fleur d'Epine 215 

"Nay, my Lord, it was no dream, for Jean 
de Joinville was in the church and saw the 
cock fly. He followed me also to the garden, 
for I heard him crouching along behind the 
hedges, and he saw Fleur d'Epine — for that is 
the new name which I gave to the man who 
hath the bird, seeing that he hath promised to 
be a naughty thorn no longer, but a rose." 

"Jean de Joinville, stand forth," com- 
manded the Abbot; and sorely against my 
will, with a hang-dog face and a thumping 
heart, I obeyed. 

' ' Didst thou, Jean, indeed, see this wonder ? " 
asked my inquisitor. 

"Yea, my Lord Abbot," I answered halt- 
ingly; "it is all as the Prince hath told thee." 

"How camest thou in the church?" 

"I was wakeful and followed Prince Louis." 

"And why hast thou not volunteered thy 
testimony before ? ' ' 

"Because none would have believed me." 

"The tale is indeed well-nigh incredible, but 
speak the truth and fear not. How looked 
this man, this Fleur d'Epine? Nay, ere thy 
testimony is taken on that point the Prince 
may retire, for we would see whether your 
descriptions tally." 

So I told the Abbot the truth concerning 



2i6 French Abbeys 

the man, whom I had indeed seen: that he 
was swarthy, ragged, and unshorn, and of 
brawny build, that he carried a knotty club, 
and so formidable was his appearance that I 
trembled at first lest he would brain the 
royal child; but that suddenly this wild 
creature dropped his bludgeon and sank upon 
his knees, and, mistaking Louis for some 
saint, he cried, "Lord have mercy upon me 
a sinner." 

I related further how the Prince greeted 
him kindly, and that the man confessed 
that he had come to rob the poultry -yard of 
the monastery of a little gamecock named 
Dagobert, which Brother Herluin, keeper of 
the fowls, had hidden, and which he had 
entered in cocking-mains to the scandal of 
the Abbey. 

This my testimony was, on the further 
examination of the Prince, confirmed in every 
particular, and we each separately deposed 
how Fleur d'Epine had declared that he was 
desperate with hunger, and that his father 
and mother also must starve unless some 
miracle were wrought in their behalf. 

"Then," continued the Prince, "I knew 
why the cock had flown to him of its own 
voHtion, and I bade him seize it as it fluttered 





"-- '^^^-^^J-amH^mi^iAymiMSiAAt^^ 



■m, ar. 
notty club, 
ince that I 

brain the 



pon 



Twelfth'^C^hfiJi^ Glass, Abbey of St. Denis. 

From a water colour of the window by John Sanford Humphreys. 
(Note the curious portrait of the Abbot Sue 



iger with inscription.) 

,'<;■!' named 



iiicicLfciri., ciiiu. Vv'iiiCii iicj iiaci 
mg-mai-r"'"- -'"'- -'''■-'■"■ ':•■ --^-^ -+ 

Imon}?^ further 

he was 



1 bade red 



Fleur d'fepine 217 

above his head, for that this was the blessed 
bird of Saint Peter, and if entered in the 
cocking-main instead of Dagobert, doubtless 
it would vanquish all contestants." 

"What said the man to this?" the Abbot 
asked of me; and I told how he had at first 
gaped as one astonished, and then clanging 
the metal work upon the stones, had said that 
it was fair brass, and the bird's belly a jug of 
stout red crockery, so that if the cock came 
not to life to fight, it might fetch somewhat 
from a dealer of old rags and iron. 

I testified further that the Prince urged 
him to venture upon the miracle, and that 
thrusting the vase into his bosom, the man 
made off over the wall, the Prince returning to 
the dormitory with the exalted mien of one 
who trod upon air. 

"By the mouth of two witnesses shall every 
word be established, ' ' quoth the Abbot. ' ' The 
ground also, which I have carefully examined, 
hath been trampled, the eglantine and its 
trellis broken, and footprints are discernible 
on the moist earth outside the wall. This, 
therefore, was no dream or vision. The bird 
of a verity flew, and the man who whistled it 
to him must have done so by some devil's arts, 
and have been a sorcerer. 



2i8 French Abbeys 

"It is by no means unlikely that he will 
carry out his boast of causing our venerated 
treasure to be animated by some imp of hell, 
which in this disguise will be invincible. The 
rogue shall be sought at every cock -pit and 
fete where lovers of this barbarous sport do 
congregate; and when apprehended he shall 
be burned for sorcery and sacrilege, for none 
save the King himself can deliver him from 
my hand." 

When Prince Louis heard this, he wept ex- 
ceedingly, for the King, his father, was absent 
in Provence, and was moreover not of a very 
tender heart, so that Fleur d'Epine stood in 
jeopardy of his life. Moreover, the Prince 
would not be convinced that his flower of 
the briar had gotten possession of the bird 
through sorcery, nor of a truth did I think so, 
nor was this the opinion of two of our young 
comrades, Geoffrey de Sargines and Pierre de 
Montreuil, who could have borne further tes- 
timony in this matter had they so dared. 

"He was a very honest man," the Prince 
declared to us ; " only he had been bred to no 
trade, and could do naught but teach young 
chicken-cocks to peck. out each other's eyes. 
But verily if he can so train men he would 
make such a captain as I would fain have in 



Fleur d'fepine 219 

my army. It would be a wicked deed to 
bum this man, and it shall not be." 

"It shall not be if I can hinder," I rejoined; 
"I will warn him of his danger, — but how, 
since we know not his true name nor his 
home ? ' ' 

"We know his haunts," said Geoffrey de 
Sargines, "and if thou hadst not informed 
upon Brother Herluin he might have taken 
thee to the next cock-fight; but now is the 
sportive monk shut up under discipline." 

"Perchance we can discover somewhat in 
his cell," suggested Pierre de Montreuil, who 
was always fertile in expedients. And there, 
in sooth, we found a calendar wherein the 
keeper of the poultry had marked the dates 
and places at which he had purposed to enter 
his little gamecock Dagobert. 

The next contest was to take place at 
Argenteuil, and on that day, under pretence 
of a visit to my aunt, I got a holiday. My 
comrades aided me with their pocket money, 
and I arrived safely at my destination, putting 
up at a low tavern. But what was my 
mingled satisfaction and alarm to find, here 
publicly posted, a challenge to all the fighting- 
cocks of the world to combat with the miracu- 
lous cock of Saint Peter, which had slept 



2 20 . French Abbeys 

during the centuries, but would, as its owner 
beheved, now awaken and vanquish all 
comers. 

There was much incredulity and jesting 
among those who read the challenge, and 
many were ready to bet against the strange 
contestant, whereas only one man appeared 
to take the bets. Strange it was also that 
this man was a Jew, whom one would not 
have credited with belief in the story. As it 
appeared, he was a receiver of stolen goods, 
who had advanced Fleur d'Epine a certain 
sum to wager upon the bird, recognising it to 
be of value, and securing its possession in case 
the bets were lost. 

But the cocking-main came not off, for 
while I sought for Fleur d'Epine with all 
diligence, the officers of the law sought for 
him also, and, hotter on the scent than I, 
seized him, showing the vase unabashed, and 
so dragged him back in chains to the jurisdic- 
tion of the Lord Abbot of Saint Denis. 

The testimony of the Prince also availed 
him nothing, but on the contrary served to 
condemn the accused, seeing that Louis 
swore upon the rood that he recognised the 
prisoner as the man who had whistled to him 
the vase. Therefore the gentle Prince sobbed 



Fleur d'Epine 221 

and prayed the livelong night; and Geoffrey 
de Sargines and Pierre de Montreuil and I 
were in even sorrier case, for we had remorse 
upon our consc:'=^nces. 

But the next morning a swift courier 
brought tidings of weighty import to the 
Abbey, for King Louis VIII., father of our 
Prince, was dead in Auvergne upon his way 
home, having accomplished naught that was 
indispensable in all his life, save the begetting 
of so great a son. 

It chanced that the news reached us as the 
Prince sat at the Gate of Charity dispensing 
loaves, and there had fallen upon their knees 
before him an aged couple, the father and 
mother of Fleur d'Epine, for they had come 
to beg for the life of their son. 

"Stay you here a little space, while I talk 
with the Lord Abbot," Louis commanded. 
And, having heard all his Lordship had to say, 
Louis listened also to the letter of his mother, 
Queen Blanche, bidding him write out a list 
of his friends who should assist at his corona- 
tion at Rheims. 

"Madame's behest shall be obeyed," quoth 
Louis; "and, my Lord Abbot, after thine 
own name I prithee place those of my best 
beloved comrades, Jean de Joinville, Geoffrey 



22 2 French Abbeys 

de Sargines, and Pierre de Montreuil, and 
following theirs that of Fleur d'Epine, the 
poor man to whom I gave the vase of Suger." 

"Nay," cried the Abbot, "what madness is 
this! Hast thou forgotten that yon vaga- 
bond lieth under sentence of death for sorcery 
and sacrilege ? ' ' 

"Par die!" exclaimed Louis, "hast thou 
forgotten, Sir Abbot, that I am King ? More- 
over, here is no sorcery, for I overheard the 
three friends whom I have named conversing 
in the dormitory in the darkness of the night, 
and charging themselves with sobs of peni- 
tence with a jest, which, through thy severity, 
hath well-nigh wrought the death of this my 
very faithful subject." 

"What jest?" demanded the Lord Abbot, 
angrily, and, emboldened with the conscious- 
ness that Louis would be our safeguard, we 
made a virtue of our necessity, and confessed 
our mad prank. For our unregenerate na- 
tures had revolted against the abnormal piety 
of the Prince, when he had declared to us his 
intention of one day going in quest of the 
holy crown of thorns; and Geoffrey de Sar- 
gines, wrapped in a sheet, had personated 
Saint Denis; while Pierre de Montreuil (even 
then most ingenious in all mechanical con- 



Fleur d'Epine 223 

trivances) had led a wire from the high altar 
to the eglantine, on which by means of a 
pulley the bird of Suger had been made to 
travel, flapping its wings in grotesque carica- 
ture of flight. Our intention being to lead 
the too credulous Prince straight into the 
briar-bush, and when he had gotten himself 
well scratched to rise up and revile him. 

Our plots were well laid, but, as I have 
since learned in the greater affairs of state- 
craft, there often come in unknown factors 
which cause the most plausible schemes to 
have other outcomes than those which they 
who devised them foresaw. It was even so 
with our pranking. The man, Fleur d'Epine, 
was the unknown factor, for who could have 
foreseen that he would have chosen this night 
to rob the Abbey hen-roosts, or that all these 
perversities should have worked together as 
I have written out for our own befooling? 
When we had confessed our malefaction, 
Louis cried in triumph, "Thou seest, Sir 
Abbot, that Fleur d'Epine's only fault was 
belief in my assurance that God would work 
a miracle in his behalf, and in that I find him 
a better Christian than thou." 

"Pardon, my Liege," cried the Abbot, 
upon his knees, "pardon me that I have 



224 French Abbeys 

spoken thoughtlessly and pridefuUy. As for 
these naughty varlets who have wrought 
all this mischief, they shall smart for their 
misdeeds." 

"That shall they not, my Lord Abbot, for 
I bear them no malice, since they meant 
none. Listen, therefore, to the first com- 
mands of King Louis IX. These my friends 
shall be well appointed to offices about my 
person, and the man who has suffered on 
our account, the doughty and valiant Fleur 
d'Epine, I do now create Captain of my body- 
guard, and he shall bear the oriflamme before 
me what time I go forth to the Holy Land, and 
shall there wear out his lustiness upon the 
Saracens." 

So he spake, and so it was done. And 
what further is there for me to say in this 
place, seeing that of the King's public life, his 
acts, and his crusades I have written else- 
where with prolixity ? All the world knoweth, 
moreover, how the King obtained that pre- 
cious relic, the true Crown of Thorns, and 
caused to be built for it by Pierre de Mon- 
treuil (who became his architect) that most 
fitting reliquary, the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. 
Neither did he forget his human thorns, but 
founded for them many leproseries and hospi- 



Fleur d'fipine 225 

tals ; nor was he unmindful of the Abbey which 
he loved, but completed it after the plans of 
Abbot Suger. 

And we three, his boyhood friends, loved 
him as our own souls; the valiant knight 
Geoffrey de Sargines protecting him in the 
day of battle, as Louis himself said, "even as 
a good servant protects his lord's tankard 
from the flies." 

So also did the very valiant Captain Fleur 
d'Epine make his breast at all times the 
King's buckler, dying at last transfixed with 
many spears at the ill-fated battle of Man- 
sourah what time Louis was taken prisoner 
by the Infidels. 




CHAPTER XI 
THE GREEN DRAGON OF FECAMP 

[T all came about through that sly rogue, 
^ Brother Hilarius. 

Merry and ingenious, his society was not 
alone the delight of his fellow -monks, but he 
had brought the Abbey of St. Ouen fame and 
wealth by his incomparable skill as scene 
painter and maker of properties for the 
mystery -plays, which were annually enacted 
in the great "Place" of Rouen. His in- 
fernos were so realistic and so melodramatic 
that they were held in higher esteem than 
the hells of any other dramatic company 
either secular or religious, while he had a 
complete monopoly in every species of loathly 
monster, from ordinary green dragons to his 
unapproachable fire -belching Beelzebub. So 
terrific was the appearance of this hobgoblin 

226 



The Green Dragon of Fecamp 227 

that ladies of nervous temperament were 
warned in advance to leave the auditorium, 
and at its sight hardened sinners had been 
known to cry out for mercy, and promise 
amendment. 

It will be readily understood that much 
could be pardoned so invaluable a member of 
the brotherhood, but Hilarius presumed upon 
his indispensability, and his manners becom- 
ing insufferable, the Abbot saw that it would 
be necessary to discipline him, and con- 
demned him by way of penance to retire for 
a season to the small priory of Valmont on 
the Normandy coast, not far from the Bene- 
dictine Abbey of Fecamp. 

Hilarius wisely employed his banishment 
in painting scenery for the approaching mys- 
tery play of Saint Anthony, a bam having 
been granted him as an atelier and his tools 
sent from Rouen. 

It was during one of the intervals of his 
work, while strolling in a neighbouring field 
which belonged to the Abbey of Fecamp, that 
a bit of good fortune befell him in the dis- 
covery of a small deposit of what appeared 
to him to be cinnabar, from which he well 
knew vermilion could be fabricated. He 
trembled with delight, for vermilion was a 



228 French Abbeys 

very expensive colour ; so costly indeed was it 
that it was only doled out to the illuminators, 
while he was obliged to content himself with 
duller reds for his lurid scene -painting. Here 
was enough, not alone for his own artistic 
needs, but a valuable source of revenue to his 
Abbey. He immediately notified the Abbot 
of Saint Ouen of his discovery, and received a 
prompt reply to his letter. 

It was indeed a pity, wrote his superior, 
that so rich a deposit should be in the posses- 
sion of a rival monastery, and Hilarius was 
directed to interrogate Orosius Abbot of Fe- 
camp as to the possibility of purchasing the 
land. But though the good monk had no idea 
of the particular treasure hid in his field and 
coveted by the Abbot of St. Ouen, he had 
his own secret reason for not desiring to part 
with the meadow, for here, and nowhere else 
in France, grew certain wild plants which he 
had mingled with garden herbs and distilled 
into a liqueur so adorable that he believed 
it worthy to be presented to the King 
himself. 

Finding that the land could not be pur- 
chased by fair means, Hilarius determined to 
employ a trick. He ascertained that the 
monks held their deed of the Abbey from the 



The Green Dragon of Fecamp 229 

Seigneur de Bailleul, and that it had been 
granted for a peculiar service. 

Though the Seigneur feared neither God 
nor man he was horribly afraid of hobgoblins. 
His castle was at a considerable distance from 
Fecamp, at the foot of a range of hills called 
the Falaise du Serpent, on account of a tunnel 
which still pierces it and was supposed to be 
the burrow of a hideous monster, who was 
often heard bellowing in his subterranean 
caverns, and who sometimes came forth to 
feast on human prey. 

Jean de Bailleul had called upon the Abbot 
of Fecamp to exorcise this dragon, and the 
brotherhood had followed their spiritual 
father into the bowels of the earth, chanting 
masses with chattering teeth. Nothing had 
been seen of the creature either at that time or 
since, — and even the noise of his snoring had 
ceased, so that the monks could fairly claim 
to have performed their part of the bargain. 

When Jean de Bailleul learned that the 
Abbot of St. Ouen was willing to pay him a 
large sum for the Abbey lands he regretted his 
unaccustomed generosity, but the grant had 
been legally made, and there was no repudiat- 
ing it. 

Hilarius saw^ the disappointed covetousness 



230 French Abbeys 

in the eyes of the Seigneur, and suggested 
craftily : 

' ' If the monks of Fecamp of their own ac- 
cord ask to exchange their present seat for 
another less valuable in some other part of 
Normandy, will you not sell it to us?" 

"Most certainly," replied Jean de Bailleul; 
"rid me of those clowns, and the estate shall 
be secured to your Abbot." 

All this time Orosius, quite unconscious 
of the machinations of the wicked, behind the 
locked doors of his laboratory was indus- 
triously concocting the divine nectar which 
he trusted would make the reputation of his 
Abbey, as indeed it did. So seductive was 
the cordial that, from frequent tasting, to be 
sure that it was correctly mingled, he had a 
vision of serpents such as Dante saw and 
some of the old sculptors wrought in stone 
about the doors of churches. The Abbot 
knew that such visions were not infrequently 
sent by the devil to admonish drunkards, and 
he wisely resolved upon radical reform, pur- 
suing a regime of abstinence with such hero- 
ism that he filled flask after flask with his 
adorable liqueur without ever allowing a drop 
of it to pass his lips. He would never have 
confessed to his visions had it not been that 



The Green Dragon of Fecamp 231 

other members of the community were about 
this time affected by similar ones. 

Andrew, the gatekeeper, had heard from 
the monks of the Priory of Valmont that the 
great serpent which the Abbot Orosius had 
exorcised had been seen making its way 
toward the coast. The monk gave a most 
thrilHng account of the number of unfortunate 
victims which the creature had devoured. 
"Heaven forfend that he should come our 
way!" 

Soon other alarming rumours were heard. 
One peasant had seen a monster prowling 
around the ateliers of Valmont at night. Its 
eyes shot fire, and it left a terrible stench of 
brimstone in its wake. As yet it had de- 
voured no human being in the vicinity, but 
pigs and poultry had been carried off, and 
there was no telling what it might do. 

Some of the monks at Fecamp had been in 
the procession which followed their Abbot 
into the loathly lair, and they doubted not 
but the monster, feeling a grudge against 
their good Abbot, would be likely to revenge 
himself upon his helpless flock. 

One night the entire community heard a 
most terrific roaring, and, shaking in their 
dormitory, not one of them dared sally forth 



232 French Abbeys 

to investigate the ominous sounds. On the 
morrow the track of the serpent was plainly 
visible around the Abbey. Orosius sprin- 
kled it with holy water, and when the roaring 
was heard again, made the sign of the Cross 
and plucked tip courage enough to look out 
at the window. But the sight which he saw 
filled him w4th such terror that he fell back- 
ward in a faint. 

A monstrous green dragon, with eyes like 
balls of fire, was rumbling and grunting along 
the avenue which led to the entrance of the 
Abbey. The creature paused here, and belch- 
ing forth a torrent of sulphurous flame, which 
would certainly have set fire to the building 
had it not been built of stone, was distinctly 
heard to utter the ominous words, "I thirst, I 
thirst for blood!" 

After having reduced the occupants of the 
Abbe}^ to the extremity of mortal terror, the 
dragon ambled slowly away to the accom- 
paniment of peals of fiendish laughter. 

The next morning the monks begged their 
Abbot on their knees to flee with them, but to 
their surprise they found him calm and resolute. 

"I shall not abandon my post of duty," he 
declared, "and since this hellish monster 
thirsts I will give him to drink." 



The Green Dragon of Fecamp 233 

A cry of dismay went up from the Httle 
company, for they beUeved that their Abbot 
had resolved to sacrifice himself for their 
sakes and to go out alone to meet the dragon. 

"Nay," he replied, "the foul fiend shall 
have a beverage far more delicious than my 
poor blood. Hasten to carry the great soup 
kettle to the avenue. I will fill it with an 
elixir which cannot fail to tempt his nostrils 
and to soften his heart." 

Apparently the good monk had not over- 
estimated the qualities of his cordial, for 
though the monster overturned the kettle in 
his first blind rush toward the Abbey, he 
seemed either to have some difficulty in rolling 
the heavy obstacle from his path, or the per- 
fume of the spilled liqueur exercised a fasci- 
nation upon him. At all events he remained 
for a long time on the spot, and the anxiously 
watching monks thought they discerned shad- 
owy forms, doubtless those of devils, at first 
moving cautiously, and later dancing about 
it in the obscurity of the tall hornbeam 
hedges. 

At length the creature retired unsteadily, 
and a great relief filled the hearts of the monks 
of Fecamp. 

But in the morning as they scrutinised the 



234 French Abbeys 

spot where the ii])])arition had been seen they 
found the soaked ground trampled and 
marked by human feet, instead, as they had 
expected, by the hoof-])rints of fiends, and a 
Hght began to break in ii])on their mental 
darkness. It was possible — nay, probable — 
that they were the victims of some scurvy 
trick. They filled the caldron again and 
waited, this time not with fear and prayer, 
but with clubs and staves. 

The dragon returned, but as the door of the 
Abbey was thrown open, and the light of all 
its lamps shone tipon it, the beast attempted 
to turn tail. Too late ! A dozen stout monks 
were w\)on it, twenty -four strong amis be- 
labcnn-ed it to the sotmd of derisive laughter, 
until from its painted canvas sides there is- 
sued cries for mercy, and there crawled from 
the broken effigy two bcch-agglcd men, who 
writhed and cursed and threatened and im- 
plored, but were relentlessly manacled and 
dragged before the Abbot. 

One of the rascals was recognised as the 
scoundrel Hilarius, but what was the astonish- 
ment of the eomniunity to find in the other 
their landlord, the mighty Seigneur de Bail- 
leul. For Hilarius had taken him into his 
confidence, and the cowardly bully (who 



The Green Dragon of Fecamp 235 

would have died of terror had he met un- 
warned the meehanical "fire-belching Beel- 
zebub") considered the joke such a rare one 
that he insisted in participating in carrying it 
out. 

The tables were turned, and the Ab1)ot 
Orosius made his own terms with his crest- 
fallen prisoners, llilarius was allowed his 
liberty, leaving Beelzebub as a tro])hy to 
Fecamp, where he remains in chains to tliis 
day; and Jean de Bailleul was glad to pur- 
chase the silence of the monks by assuring 
them the possession of their lands for ever, in 
return for an annual offering of a caulch-on of 
the precious elixir. 

The story leaked out at last along with the 
flowing cordial at his own board. 

"It was the best bargain I ever made," he 
declared, "for what could the Abbot of vSt. 
Ouen have given me comparable to this ador- 
able liqueur of the Benedictines of Fecamp?" 




CHAPTER XII 



MADEMOISELLE DE FOLLEVILLE 



AN EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF THE ABBEY OF MONT 

SAINT MICHEL, AS RELATED BY THE HUGUENOT 

SOLDIER, RAOUL DE RABLOTIERE 

I 

jy yi OST beautiful of my early visions — ^most 
^ ' ^ terrible of all the memories of a life 
spent for the greater part in warfare — the 
most potent influence in all my life, — that 
is what the Abbey stands for to me. 

And yet I have spent but one hour within 
its walls, an hour which showed me hell and 
gave me heaven; but patience — you shall 
have the story in due order. 

You know the spot, a rocky pinnacle, an 
island when the tide is in, and when it is out 
more dangerous of approach from the treach- 
ery of moving quicksands. Not unfittingly 
did they choose as its patron saint the 

236 




STATUE OF THE MONK VINCELLI, INVENTOR OF THE BENEDICTINE ELIXIR. 
By permission of Neurdein Freres. 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 237 

commander of the hosts of the archangels. 
Huguenot though I am, I could almost 
believe that Saint Michel has ever hov- 
ered with his legions above the Mount, 
and that he garrisoned it not alone with 
angels, but with devils. For, even before 
successive fighting Abbots girdled the peak 
with its cincture of walls, and sentinelled them 
with friars who knew their manual of arms 
better than their breviary, the Prince of the 
Power of the Air, whom Saint Michel chained, 
summoned his tempests to protect the Abbey. 
Saint Michel au Peril du Mer it has always 
been, but never in peril from man. Through 
the century of war with England, when all the 
west of France was lost, Mont Saint Michel 
remained invincibly French, and now that 
our Henri of Navarre had swept the League 
from the same region, the monks of the for- 
tress Abbey chanted their masses in impudent 
security. 

It was in vain that the Beamais had set the 
ablest officer in his command, my lifelong 
friend, Gabriel de Montgomery, the task of 
reducing Mont Saint Michel, and that he had 
cut off all succour for the Abbey from the land- 
ward side ; swift-sailing sloops from Saint Malo, 
manned by descendants of those Malouin 



-^J* 



French Abbeys 



corsairs who had dehvered the Mount from the 
EngHsh in the Hundred Years' War, would 
elude the vigilance of our harbour officials, and 
bring the beleaguered monks provisions. 

"I will make myself master there yet," 
Montgomery growled; "there and in one 
other quarter that I wot of. The Abbey is 
like a provoking coquette. It beckons me on 
and holds me at a distance continually, but I 
will not be so played with by a fortress of 
mere stone. No, nor defied by a pretty 
woman who gives herself the airs of that 
same Abbey." 

I knew better than to ask her name then, 
sure that I would learn it in good time and 
confident, too, that Montgomery would make 
good his boasting, and that the citadel and 
the woman would alike yield to his rough 
wooing. 

Meantime I came to know the Abbey in 
many aspects. I had sailed around it in 
reconnoitring trips, had felt the chami of its 
flashing attractiveness from the seaward side, 
and had heard the chiming of its bells and the 
chanting of the angelus borne softly land- 
ward by the sea-breeze. 

It was more varied in its moods than a 
coquette, for there were times when it struck 



Mademoiselle de Follevillc 239 

me with the chill terror of the supernatural. 
And this was not when the waves were dash- 
ing shoreward like mad horsemen to cut it 
off from all ap-])roach, but in the gathering 
twilight, when the tides were out, and only a 
-|)()ol here and there red as blood upon the 
brown sands reflected the afterglow. Then 
the fog came in and wreathed the base of the 
Mount with fantastic curling shapes, like 
ghosts joining hands in a mysterious dance, 
who waved and beckoned and seemed to 
call, "Come, come to your death, under the 
shifting quicksands." 

At such times as these Mont Saint Michel 
seemed to me so intolerably sad and sinister 
that I would liefer have received orders to 
any desperate fight in a fair field than to have 
known, as we did later, that the fortress was 
to be ours simply for the walk across those 
haunted sands. 

But before that ordeal came, with its 
tragical consequences, much was to happen of 
supreme moment both to France and to nie, 
for it was the midsummer of 1588, the year of 
the coming of the Spanish Armada for the 
conquest of England, and the summer in 
which I first saw Mademoiselle de Folleville. 

Therefore, if I now make a divergence from 



240 French Abbeys 

Mont Saint Michel, be assured that it is but a 
circuitous road for the necessary relation of 
certain events instrumental in bringing us to 
the Abbey; I having never learned the craft 
of those romancers whose tales fly as straight 
to their end as an arrow to a target. 

On this summer then the entire coast of 
Normandy was patrolled by Montgomery's 
men, for he was determined to carry out the 
orders of Henri of Navarre that no Spaniard 
should land on French soil or receive help of 
any kind from Frenchmen. The Comte de 
Montgomery, who had his hands filled by the 
task of keeping the Saint Malo fisher fleet 
shut up within their harbour, and so from aid- 
ing the Spaniards, deputed to me the inspec- 
tion of that portion of the Norman coast which 
lies between Cherbourg and Honfleur. I had 
instructions to make my headquarters at the 
little hamlet of Lion-sur-Mer ; not from the 
fact that there was any likelihood that an 
incursion might be expected here, but because 
my friend was desirous of impressing the 
ladies of the chateau with his solicitude for 
their welfare. 

"I must confess," the Count admitted to 
me, "that though I have long wooed her, 
Mademoiselle de Folleville has never granted 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 241 

me any very assuring proofs of her favour. 
She is a tantalising little witch, endowed with 
more than her share of coquetry; and yet I 
fancy that she might love me were it not that 
she is a bigoted Catholic. I depend upon you, 
my dear Raoul, to dissipate her prejudices. 
I have in this letter begged her widowed 
mother, for the sake of their greater safety at 
this perilous time, to grant you and a few 
of your comimand the hospitality of their 
chateau. 

"It is a delicate mission which I confide to 
you, my friend, but I count not only on your 
affection for me, but also not a little on your 
never-failing tact and your prepossessing 
personality." 

"Nonsense," I answered, but flattered in 
despite of my disclaimer. "Nonsense as to 
the latter qualifications, but you may count 
on my devotion now and always." 

I delivered my friend's letter immediately 
upon my arrival at Lion-sur-Mer ; but its 
reception augured little for the success of my 
errand. The sour-faced old servitor who took 
it showed me into a long drawing-room, 
where I was left to cool my heels for a length 
of time which I might have regarded as in- 
sufferable but for a little incident that caused 



242 French Abbeys 

it to ])ass \or>- pleasantly. As I entered the 
salon 1 nolicvd at its farlher end a pretty 
nKiid-servant in ii somewhat pecuHar plight. 

She had chnibed from the baek of a eliair 
to the mantel-shelf in order to wind a eloek, 
whicvh hung upon the wall above the mirror, 
antl. startled by my entranee, bad cMideav- 
oured rather preeipitately to deseentl, but in 
so doing hatl inished the ehair beyond her 
reaeh. She now knelt with her face to the 
wall, for the shelf was too narrow to permit. 
1km- to turn, and was making frantic efforts 
with one i)retty slippered foot to fmd the baek 
of the treaeherons chair. She could see my 
rellec'tion in the mirror. In' wluvse frame she 
steadied herscMf, and 1 regret to confess that 
my face was eon\'uls(.Hl with mirth. 

I was imgallant doubtless in offering her no 
escape from her predieanient. but she was far 
too bewitching in her rosy embarrassment to 
permit of any act on my part which would 
haA'c ended tlie enforced tete-ri-tete. 

llcM- dress 1 cannot now recall. It was o( 
siMuc light material which then seemed to me 
appropriate to her condition, but marvel- 
knisly becoming. The bodice, 1 remember, 
was cut scpiarc, and slunved the lo\cly cm'ves 
of her neck clustered with little rin^s o( an- 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 243 

burn h.'iir, which escaped from a molj-cap, 
such as housemaids wear, and ladies also, as 
I have since learned, in their morning negligee. 

1 had hardly time to observe so much as 
this when, recovering her self-])OSsession in 
spite of my (juizzical stare, the little rogue 
made me a saticy mou. "Why do you not 
help me down, imbecile?" she asked with 
a pique which was as charming as her 
confusion. 

Thus challenged, I promptly encircled the 
shapely waist with my great hands. 

"No, not in that way. Monsieur Im])erti- 
nence," she cried, "(iive me the cha.ir." 

"And what will you give me in return? -a 
kiss?" 

"Certainly not, insolent creature. The 
chair, I say, the chair!" 

"Oh, very well, remain where you are," I 
replied, removing the chair a little farther 
and seating myself in it, "You. make an un- 
commonly charming mantel ornament." 

"Insufferable! Francois! Frangois! Au 
secours!" 

"If Fran(;ois is the name of the old tub of 
vinegar who admitted me," I rejoined, "I 
am happy to inform you that he is out of hear- 
ing, having gone in search of your mistress." 



244 French Abbeys 

A slight spasm, entirely incomprehensible 
to me, shook the frame of my fair prisoner. 
Fearing that she would fall, I was at her side 
in an instant, and again held her securely, 

"Unhand me," she insisted, but she was 
not angry for all her pretence, for to my 
astonishment the minx was choking with 
laughter. 

"He is looking for my mistress!" she re- 
peated. "If he had asked me her where- 
abouts he would have found her the sooner." 

"It is fortunate for me," I replied, "that 
he did not ask you." 

"Perhaps you are not so fortunate as you 
imagine," she retorted. "What is your busi- 
ness with my mistress, Monsieur Sauce-box?" 

"I have come to pay her a visit." 

"How so, when she does not know you." 

"How do you know that, little one?" 

The maid gave an involuntary gasp, but 
answered promptly: 

"Because Mademoiselle is very particular 
about her acquaintances. Nothing is so re- 
volting to her as freedom of manners. For 
instance, you would never dare hold her by 
the waist as you are holding me." 

"Assuredly not, and as probably I would 
have no yearning to attempt it." 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 245 

"So we have a different etiquette for fine 
ladies. I would have you to know that my 
mistress is very fond of me, and would turn 
you from the chateau if you offered me the 
least discourtesy." 

"I mean you none, my dear, and, as I fore- 
see that we are to be good friends, pray tell 
me your name. I am sure it is a pretty one." 

"You may call me Coralie — if you stay; 
but I am by no means certain that you will be 
permitted to do so. Why have you come to 
Lion-sur-Mer ? " 

"To woo your mistress, and I want your 
help." 

"You are frank, surely. Do you imagine 
that it would help your cause if she should 
discover you now, or that either of us would 
be pleased to know that you were making love 
to both?" 

" I do not think she will mind," I ventured, 
"if you do not." 

Again Coralie started, and this time so 
violently that she fell backward from the 
mantel plump into my arms. 

"You are the most audacious man I ever 
met," she exclaimed, as she extricated herself 
from my embrace. "What do you mean by 
such an extraordinary remark?" 



246 French Abbeys 

' ' I mean that it could be no concern of your 
mistress if I should fall in love with you, since 
I have come to woo her, not for myself, but 
for a friend." 

' ' Indeed, this is very interesting. And who 
is this chicken-hearted friend who cannot do 
his own wooing? Tell me of him, but be 
franker with me than you will be with 
Mademoiselle. Does he really deserve her? 
Since he is as bashful as you are bold, is he as 
brave with men as he is timid with ladies?" 

"Yes, to both questions. He is good and 
brave, noble -bom and attractive of person. 
He is Count Gabriel de Montgomery." 

Coralie's nose took an upward cock. ' ' Nay, 
you may dislike him," I protested, "but you 
cannot despise him. His deeds prove his 
worth. He has made himself master of Nor- 
mandy. Only the fortress Abbey of Mont 
Saint Michel still defies him, and he will be 
commander there ere long; and he will win 
your mistress, for these are his two great am- 
bitions, and where he sets his heart he ever 
succeeds." 

' ' He will never win Mademoiselle de Folle- 
ville," she persisted, "heretic that he is, and 
son of the man who killed the good King 
Henri H. by perfidy in the joust." 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 247 

"Not by perfidy," I maintained. "It was 
an accident that the splintered lance pierced 
the King's brain; and it was Catherine de' 
Medici's unreasoning rancour which drove 
the father of my friend into affiliation with 
Coligny. His murder in cold blood after he 
was taken prisoner is the deed which his son 
Count Gabriel de Montgomery will never 
forgive. But for that heritage of revenge he 
would be a merciful man." 

"You may cease your praises," said Coralie, 
"for here comes Frangois," and she slipped 
quickly through the long window into the 
garden, as the old servitor shuffled in with the 
letter still on his tray. 

"I cannot find Mademoiselle," he said, 
"though I have looked for her all over the 
chateau, and Madame, who is an invalid, 
bade me take the letter to her for an 
answer." 

"Francois, come here," called Coralie from 
the garden, and the old man hurriedly re- 
sponded to the summons. He returned pre- 
sently, bringing the response of Mademoiselle 
de Folleville, which was to the effect that as 
the Comte de Montgomery was for the present 
military commander of the district, his right 
to billet soldiers on the householders was not 



248 French Abbeys 

to be denied, ami a room in the chc^teau was 
at my service, while my men ccniUl be Uxlgcd 
in the outbuildings. 

Indignant as I was at this arrogance, I 
made no retort, tnisting to the tact whicli my 
frioiul had vautitoil to owMvomc the preju- 
dices of my ungracious hostess. 1 was soon 
tiisillusioned, although 1 could not complain 
o{ my eiUcM-tainmcnt in any other respect. 
Madame anil Mademoiselle lie l^'^olleville 
persisletUly denied me their company, even 
taking their n>eals in their own rooms, and 
giving me no opporturiity to h^^iwotise them 
into recepti\dty of my friend's suit. 

l\M-scMially I was quite indifterent to the 
airs ov sulks o{ these grand dames, for if the 
mistresses wcmv unkind, the maid was gen- 
erous o( \\cv sprightly conversation. As I 
ceinfessevl to Coralie. tlunigh well born my- 
selt". 1 am ahvays somewhat abashed in the 
presence oi ne>ble ladies. Kticiuette and 
eonrtesv anvl all the artitieialities of polite 
soeiel\' are to me well nigh insutlerable; and 
I wcnild not have reached so familiar a footing 
with Mademoiselle de Follevillc in a score of 
years as that on which I found m3^self with 
her bewitcliing maid after ouv tirst half-hour 
of badinage. Nor was she such an empty- 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 249 

headed minx as I may unwittingly have 
painted. For all her kittenish playfulness 
she knew how to keep my respect. If her 
tongue was free so were not her manners, and 
her spirits never ran away from her control. 
So that I oft fell to wondering that a girl of 
her lowly station should possess her innate 
refinement. I was sure, even before I ob- 
tained an inkling of her history, that some- 
where in her ancestry there had been a 
strain of gentle blood. Standing one morn- 
ing before a portrait of the late Leonce de 
Folleville, Seigneur of Lion-sur-Mer, I was 
struck by Coralie's resemblance to the old 
Baron. There was the same curling red-gold 
hair, the same green-blue eyes and elusive, 
mocking smile. 

Only — and I strove to analyse the differ- 
ence — I found Coralie's face charming, and I 
liked not overmuch the one upon the canvas. 

And yet there was no cruelty or sensuality 
in the distinguished features, which might 
have been those of a statesman, so intellectual 
was the forehead, so crafty keen the slant, 
half-shut eyes. It was not the pointed red 
beard alone which gave the face a vulpine 
look ; ruse and deceit were stamped in the in- 
sincere smile, and the sensitive nostrils were 



250 French Abbeys 

drawn close in a hateful sneer, — as though in 
scorn of his victim. 

Coralie's eyes frequently regarded me with 
an indefinable expression, which resembled 
this. It was as though she were acting a part, 
and glanced swiftly askance to see how her 
audience of one accepted it. At such mo- 
ments a smile, sweet but derisive, curled her 
lips, and she would banter me unmercifully 
on my ill-success in wooing Mademoiselle for 
my friend. 

' ' Nay, how can I succeed, since she will not 
see me ? " I would reply. 

"And if I bring about an interview," she 
would ask mischievously, "will you swear to 
me that you will not woo her for yourself?" 

And when I protested that I would not so 
woo her, nay, not if she were an angel and I 
loved her with my whole heart, for that were 
disloyalty to my friend, she laughed and 
railed on me, saying that I had not the spirit 
of a mouse to make love to a woman either 
for myself or another. 

I admitted that this might well be in the 
case of ladies of quality, of whom I ever stood 
in awe, but that I blessed Providence that 
had fenced her with no such barriers of rank 
and breeding, but had made her the sweetest 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 251 

wild rose that ever grew in the hedges. All 
this badinage on her side w^as such pretty 
mockery, and she so evidently found her mis- 
chief diverting, that I loved her the more the 
less I understood her. But now, as I noted 
her resemblance to the Baron, her playfulness 
seemed an innate passion for deceit, with no 
other end in view than the mere pleasure of 
making a dupe. 

"She is enough like him to be his daughter," 
I said, to myself as I fancied, for I had not 
marked that the old butler was standing be- 
hind me. 

"She is his daughter," he answered. 

I wheeled sharply. "It is time Monsieur 
knew the truth," he continued steadily. "If 
Mademoiselle chooses to pass for what she is 
not, I will be no party to the deception, for I 
would not see her make a fool of an honest 
man." 

"Your conscience may rest easy," I replied 
coldly. "I am content with as much or as 
little as Mademoiselle Coralie desires to tell 
me." 

She entered as I ceased speaking, and 
Francois slunk guiltily away. Her eye 
glanced from me to the portrait with keen 
intuition. 



252 French Abbeys 

"Frangois has told you," she said. 

"He has told me," I replied, "but what- 
ever may have been the fault of your parents, 
it is not yours. Be assured that it matters 
not to me that you are the half-sister of 
Mademoiselle de FoUeville. Nay, it does 
make a difference; for any trouble you may 
suffer I ask the right to share. I love you the 
more because you bear this family no envy or 
malice, but hide your grief under a sweet 
gaiety which is nothing short of heroism, and 
I shall count it the highest honour of my life, 
Coralie, if you will be my wife." It must not 
be thought that it cost me nothing to make 
this speech, for though not of the haute no- 
blesse I am a gentleman, and I had before my 
eyes the consternation of my mother when 
she should hear that I was to mate with a 
menial. Nevertheless, my mind was made 
up and I poured it forth. Coralie gave me 
no answer for a little space; wonder and 
blank dismay, and other emotions inexplic- 
able to me, strove with her happiness, and so 
wrought upon her that at last she broke into 
hysterical laughter, clinging to me the while 
and hiding her face upon my shoulder. 

"So you love me in spite of everything," 
she said. "Oh! you are good, good, Raoul, 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 253 

though a Huguenot. Religion shall not part 
us. Nothing shall part us after this, if what 
you protest is true." 

"True, as I know that you are Corahe. 
Henceforth, let us have no secrets from each 
other. Why did you not tell me all before? 
You might have trusted me. ' ' 

" I could not tell you, Raoul, that I was the 
illegitimate daughter of the Baron de Folle- 
ville, for I do not believe it. It is not true. 
My mother is a saint." 

"I will love you and believe in you what- 
ever else I may be forced to believe," I as- 
serted, "for I am sure that you would never 
intentionally deceive me." I could say no 
more, for I was convinced from the marvellous 
resemblance to the portrait that Francois had 
spoken the truth, as indeed he had. 

So we were betrothed, to wait on fortune 
for our spousals until the wars should be 
ended. And now suddenly there was sprung 
upon me other work than the wooing of 
maids whether of high or low degree. For 
the business on which I was ostensibly sent 
proved to be other than the sinecure Mont- 
gomery had thought. The Armada was 
even then sailing up the Channel in all its 
pride and vainglory; but Hawkins had word 



254 French Abbeys 

of its approach, and he and Howard of 
Effingham, with some of Drake's privateers, 
came out to meet it. The engagement took 
place nearly opposite Lion-sur-Mer, — as we 
were soon to have proof. 

One of my men, Goupigny by name, whom 
I had posted as nearest coast-guard, brought 
me the first intimation of the arrival of the 
fleet, for he had noted extraordinary agitation 
among the fisher folk. The women kept a 
constant watch to seaward, while the men 
were continually flitting hither and thither 
in their small craft on the lookout for other 
hauls than fish. They were many of them 
wreckers, and were soon to have opportunity 
to pick casks of Spanish wine and other com- 
modities from the flotsam and jetsam which 
the tides brought in; for two days later a 
fierce westerly gale drove the dismantled 
Spanish galleon, San Salvador, upon the reef 
before Lion-sur-Mer, and strewed all our coast 
with wreckage. 

At the first news of what had occurred, I 
took horse and rode to the cliff where was the 
little lookout in which I had posted Gou- 
pigny. He was not there ; nor did I marvel, 
for, as I looked seaward, I could see the tre- 
mendous surges pounding the stranded ship, 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 255 

which was fast breaking up, and throwing 
upon the sands with every return some dark 
object, bales and splintered beams tangled 
with cordage, and here and there the bodies 
of sailors, the life beaten out of them by the 
sea. 

As I looked I saw one flung upon the beach 
who was not quite dead. He stumbled to his 
feet, ran a few steps, then dropped exhausted, 
just out of reach of the ebbing wave, which 
reached out a treacherous fringed paw for its 
prey, and then fled backward to wrench more 
plunder from the ship. An instant later a 
man hurried along the base of the cliff to the 
shipwrecked Spaniard. I saw him rifle his 
pockets, take from his neck a gold chain, and 
he was hacking off his fingers with a knife in 
order to secure his rings when the pain 
brought the Spaniard to his senses, and he 
dealt the thief a blow in the face. The 
wrecker drew off, running back for his gun, 
which he had left at a distance, and as he 
raised it to take aim, I recognised my per- 
fidious coast-guard Goupigny. 

I shouted with all my might, but the roar 
of the winds and waves drowned my voice, 
and the Spaniard would certainly have been 
killed but for the sudden appearance of an 



256 French Abbeys 

intrepid horsewoman, who galloped toward 
the miscreant, striking at him with her whip. 
Gonpigny grasped at the reins, but the reso- 
lute woman dropped her whip and drew a 
cavalry pistol from its holster, whereupon 
the coward fell to his knees and whined for 
mercy, presently retreating under the edge of 
the cliff, and so out of my sight. Coralie (for 
it was none other) sprang from her horse, and 
binding the Spaniard's wounded hand with 
her kerchief, assisted him to mount, walking 
by his side and leading the horse. 

I was eager to meet the actors in this little 
drama, but the face of the cliff was too pre- 
cipitous for me to descend at this point, and 
when I reached the shore it was deserted by 
the three persons whom I have mentioned. 
But other bodies were being brought in by 
the tide, and presently the wreckers gathered 
like vultures, and I had business enough be- 
fore me. Fortunately, my squad of soldiers 
arrived upon the scene in time to enforce my 
authority, and there was no more robbing of 
the dead. Of slaying there was no need, for 
the sea had had its will upon them all. Pre- 
sently Goupigny himself joined us, and, not 
knowing that I had been a witness of the late 
occurrence, asserted that Mademoiselle de 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 257 

Folleville had brought a band of armed re- 
tainers, and had rescued from his safeguard a 
formidable Spanish officer whom he had 
valiantly taken prisoner. 

With that I ordered my men to seize him, 
and told him how I had witnessed his at- 
tempt to murder a helpless man, having first 
robbed him; and, the booty being found upon 
his person, I ordered him to be put in irons 
until the coming of Montgomery, who would 
certainly have him hanged. 

The knave retorted right insolently that 
Montgomery's explicit orders were at all 
hazards to prevent the landing of Spaniards, 
and if, on searching the chateau of Lion- 
sur-Mer, this one were found concealed and 
nourished, I and not he would stand a good 
chance of hanging. 

I winced at that, for he spoke not far from 
the truth, and I made speed to tell Coralie 
that I knew of her exploit, and to beg her to 
allow me to send the Spaniard under escort 
to Montgomery. But this she roundly refused 
to do, fearing for his safety. 

"You should know me well enough," she 
said, "to be assured that I will always help 
the losing side. That will be your side soon. 
Your precious Montgomery will never attain 



258 French Abbeys 

his pet ambition of becoming master of Mont 
Saint Michel. The Spaniards, after they 
have conquered England, will cross the 
Channel and sweep the Huguenots out of 
France. The tables will be turned then, for, 
instead of your protecting us, we shall have 
to protect you." 

"Would you help me, Coralie," I asked, 
"if my life were in your hands?" 

"Surely," she answered. 

"Then help me now that my honour is at 
stake," I pleaded. "I have sent an express for 
Montgomery, and when he comes, even if I 
hold my tongue in regard to this man, Gou- 
pigny will not. The chateau will be searched, 
and the Spaniard will gain nothing by my 
disgrace." 

She thought for a mom.ent. " I do not de- 
sire your dishonour," she mused. "Ah! I 
have it. Mademoiselle shall deal with your 
master. She has as much wit as I, and is 
more personable and winsome." 

"That were impossible," I vowed. 

"Nay," she persisted, "were we equal in 
other respects, there is an attractiveness in 
rank and fine clothes, my dear Raoul, which 
will lend to any woman an added charm. 
If I have won your heart. Mademoiselle, with 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 259 

her greater advantages, can surely win him 
to mercy. Only let your prisoner bide here 
until Montgomery comes, for indeed he is not 
able to march as far as Caen." 

"The Comte de Montgomery is a stronger 
man than I, Coralie. Your mistress could 
not swerve him from his duty. I will keep 
the Spaniard here if you insist, but when the 
Comte comes, I shall deliver him up." 

Her eyes danced with triumph. '"T is all 
I ask," she cried. "Search the chateau. 
Nay, I will not put you to that trouble. He 
is in the room above your own, and here is the 
key. Arrest him, make your report to Mont- 
gomery. You will surely not be to blame if, 
in spite of all your precautions, the bird will 
have flown." 

"Coralie," I answered, seriously, "I will not 
be your accomplice. I warn you that I shall 
do all I can to keep my prisoner." 

"Do your best, do your worst," she chal- 
lenged me, "and I will outwit you." 

I had a premonition that she spoke truly, 
but when I had seen the Spaniard I did not 
greatly care, for I found him slight of figure, 
of gentle manners, and suffering, moreover, 
from the nervous shock occasioned by his late 
experiences. 



26o French Abbeys 

What Montgomery would do with him I 
knew not. The best that could be hoped for 
was rigorous imprisonment until his status 
could be determined, and in his condition 
this might mean death. I therefore locked 
him into the room and posted an incorrupti- 
ble guard before the door, as in duty bound, 
hoping all the while that Coralie might find 
some way to keep her word. 

My quarters at the chateau were on the 
third floor above the main entrance, the win- 
dows giving view in two directions. From 
one I could look down upon a rich dormer in 
the Renaissance style which lighted Made- 
moiselle de Folleville's apartment and some- 
times afforded me a glimpse of Coralie. In 
the angle of the walls between there was a 
slender tourelle, holding (as I judged from 
studying it from without) a spiral staircase. 
I could see that it might very easily be a 
means of commtmication between Made- 
moiselle's room and the Spaniard's, and one 
would naturally expect to find a door leading 
from this staircase to my room as well. 

It was therefore a little odd that the only 
apparent entrance to- my chamber and to the 
one above it w^as upon the other side, from a 
large hall running through the centre of the 




CHATEAU OF LION-SUR-MER. 



Mademoiselle de FoUeville 261 

chateau. I examined the wall carefully upon 
the inside. It was panelled in oak, and feel- 
ing along the moulding I presently lighted 
upon a spring which would have released a 
sliding door had it not been firmly nailed upy 
from the staircase side. The points of the 
nails driven through the panel and moulding 
protruded slightly into my chamber. They 
were untarnished by rust, and shining. I 
concluded, therefore, that they had been re- 
cently driven, to keep me from using the 
staircase. I doubted whether the same pre- 
cautions had been taken in the case of the 
Spaniard, and, if not, saw that he could very 
easily elude my guard and leave the chateau 
in this way. I had a guess, too, of where he 
would go, and by what means; for a mys- 
terious, swift-sailing pinnace had been sighted 
that evening by one of my coast-guards, who 
knew it for one of the Saint Malo fleet, manned 
by the half - pirate Malouins whom Mont- 
gomery was striving to keep in their inner 
harbour, but who were always eluding his 
vigilance and stealing forth to smuggle sup- 
plies to Mont Saint Michel, or otherwise aid 
the Catholic cause. My man recognised this 
particular pinnace from its sails, patched with 
bars of red cloth, making the double cross of 



262 French Abbeys 

the house of Lorraine; while the bouquets of 
blessed box on the mastheads further an- 
nounced the faith of her captain, who had 
probably witnessed the sea-fight, and had 
followed the San Salvador, hoping to be of 
some assistance when it was driven upon our 
coast. I doubted not but some Catholic 
fisherman would inform Mademoiselle of the 
presence of the pinnace, and that the Span- 
iard would be taken on board that very night. 

I had strained a point in winking at this 
evasion for Coralie's sake. What was my 
vexation, therefore, as I lay awake, to hear 
light footsteps tripping up and down the 
spiral staircase, and in the morning. the rest- 
less tread of my prisoner pacing the floor at 
intervals. 

To add to my embarrassment, the Comte de 
Montgomery arrived sooner than I had ex- 
pected, and though for two days there was 
business enough demanding his attention re- 
lative to the wreckage of the San Salvador, 
which included guns and other munitions of 
war, at last all was done, and I could not 
longer delay reporting the presence of the 
Spaniard. Meantime the Count was better 
entertained than I had been, for the ap parte - 
ment de parade with the oriel windows was 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 26 



o 



assigned to him, and the ladies dined with 
him daily, a privilege which had never been 
granted me. Nevertheless, when I finally 
opened to him he was in bad humour. 

"Why have you not told me this before?" 
he asked; and then, regarding me keenly, 
added : 

"You need not reply, Raoul. I can see the 
hand of Mademoiselle de Folleville here, and, 
were it not that I know you to be an honour- 
able man, I might also reproach you that, 
with all your opportunities, you have not 
advanced my interests with her one whit." 

I swore that it irked me to confess it, but 
I had had no opportunity, having never been 
allowed speech with Mademoiselle. 

"That is a little remarkable," he replied, 
drily, ' ' for she has had much to tell me of her 
conversations with you. How else, indeed, 
could she have learned of my ambition to be 
Military Commander of Mont Saint Michel?" 

I saw that Coralie must have betrayed 
my confidences to her lady, who had told 
him. 

"Mistress or maid, what does it matter?" 
he asked. "It remains that we have been 
juggled with, and that this Spaniard has 
doubtless escaped." 



264 French Abbeys 

"Pardon me," I contradicted. "I believe 
he is still in the chateau," and I led Mont- 
gomery to the room in which I had locked my 
prisoner; but, though the sentry still stood 
before the door, it was empty. The door 
communicating with the spiral staircase in the 
tower was, like that in my own chamber, a 
secret one, and though I could see the crack 
where the sliding panel had not been com- 
pletely closed, I did not even then point it 
out to my friend. Nor did I object when he 
bade me go with him to Mademoiselle to sift 
the truth. Coralie had kept her word and 
tricked me, but I bore her no malice, for I 
still believed that she loved me. 

Mademoiselle de FoUeville was standing at 
the window of her boudoir, watching, as I be- 
lieve, for our departure, for Montgomery had 
bidden her farewell, and the groom held our 
horses below. She turned with a quick move- 
ment as though she would have fled, but she 
was fairly trapped, and faced us bravely, 
though there were tears in her eyes. This 
tendered me not, no, nor her regal beauty, as 
she stood gowned like an empress in pearl- 
broidered satin, with pearls braided in her 
hair. 

Neither her beauty nor her emotion moved 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 265 

me one whit, naught save my astonishment 
that this queenly woman who answered to 
Montgomery's greeting as Mademoiselle de 
Folleville — ^who was indeed Mademoiselle — 
was also my Coralie, whom I had believed 
so childlike and innocent in all her sweet 
blithesomeness. 

What my friend said to her I did not hear. 
I only looked, and looked again, bereft of my 
right senses. She dared not meet my eyes 
though she faced Montgomery resolutely, and 
his reproaches, angry at first, quieted under 
her calm gaze. 

"All this is true, Monsieur," I heard her 
admit at last; "but even so, in what have I 
wronged you ? If I believed that my guest's 
life was not safe in your hands, and strove to 
save him in other ways than through wheed- 
ling you with a pretence of affection, am I so 
much to blame ? ' ' 

' ' And what of me ? Have you been as open 
and true with me?" I cried. 

"I will answer you another time. Monsieur 
de Rablotiere," she replied, still avoiding my 
eyes. 

"Nay, you will answer me now, or never," 
I insisted. "It suited not with your ideas of 
honour to purchase favours of my friend for 



266 French Abbeys 

love, you boast. Then, what was the mean- 
ing of this game you played with me?" 

' ' The game I played with you " — she echoed 
my words without a tremor — "was sprung 
upon me by the accident of our meeting. It 
had no other motive at first than a lonely 
girl's whim, her enjoyment in the acting of a 
little comedy. Afterwards — the gam^e had 
other stakes than the moment's pleasure, or 
than this man's life — " But here her voice 
broke, and she turned her back upon me. 
God forgive me, I thought her feigning, to 
dupe me again, and I broke out hotly : 

"So it was all a farce! The curtain is 
down at last, and I congratulate you on your 
skill as an actress. Mademoiselle." 

"I do not know of what you are talking," 
bawled Montgomery, "unless you have made 
a fool of Rablotiere as well as of me, and are 
striving to make us forget the question in 
hand. I believe that you are still secreting 
this Spaniard, and I demand that you sur- 
render him to me, if he is not your lover. In 
which case, Mademoiselle, I would respect 
your right to retain him." 

Montgomery spoke with a bitterness only 
pardonable in a rejected suitor. Mademoi- 
selle flushed to the roots of her hair, which 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 267 

seemed also to bum with an intenser flame. 
She turned with folded arms, and for the first 
time in this conversation met my gaze, though 
she still spoke to Montgomery. 

"You are right thus far. Monsieur," she 
said. ' ' The man whom I love is underneath 
this roof." 

Then to my wonder — for she had seemed so 
strong — she dropped in a swoon. 

I sprang forward, but Montgomery's iron 
grasp was on my arm. "She is acting still," 
he said; "ring for her servants, and let them 
call the jade's lover. This is no place for us, 
Raoul ; we are both well rid of her, and of all 
women, say I, for the rest of our lives." 



II 



How the Armada was broken by that en- 
counter with the English sea-dogs, and fled up 
the North Sea before them, not daring to re- 
turn as it had come, but striving to round the 
British Isles and thus make its way back to 
Spain; how the winds and the waves fought 
for England and sunk the ill-fated ships, or 
drove them upon the Irish coast, where the 
barbarians brained the shipwrecked mariners 
with clubs and stones ; and how only a pitiful 



268 French Abbeys 

remnant of those who had sailed away so 
arrogantly ever reached Spain, where the 
Admiral of the flotilla was spat upon by 
mothers whose sons had perished through 
his cowardice, — all this is an old and a well- 
known story, and needs not that I recite it 
here. But what is not so well understood in 
France is that this beating which the Roman- 
ists received at the hands of Protestant Eng- 
land also put an end for ever to Catholic 
despotism in France. Only a show of power 
the party maintained, and such horrors as the 
Inquisition or the Saint Bartholomew could 
never come again by royal consent or with 
that of the people of France. Though of 
what savagery still remained in out-of-the- 
way corners to be subdued I was yet to be a 
witness. 

Scarce a year from this time the day came 
for which Montgomery had so ardently 
longed, and the assault of Mont Saint Michel 
was offered him with every likelihood of suc- 
cess, for treachery within co-operated with 
valour without the walls. 

That double - traitor Goupigny, false to 
every cause as well as to every master, had 
escaped from prison and been granted asylum 
at the Mount. In recompense for this kind- 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 269 

ness he had immediately entered into nego- 
tiation with the Comte de Montgomery, 
promising for two hundred crowns, whose 
receipt I witnessed, to introduce our troops 
into the fortress, where we could fall upon 
the little garrison unawares, and then easily 
subdue the defenceless friars. 

I had no stomach for this adventure, and 
this not alone because I would liefer win in a 
fair fight, but also that I had too much faith 
in Goupigny's unfaith, believing him capable 
of betraying whatever side suited his own 
advantage. His greeting was somewhat too 
oily when I remembered how I had handled 
him at Lion-sur-Mer. There was a shadow of 
that treatment in the ugly look he gave me 
when he said : " It will be the happiest moment 
of my life when I have the honour of welcom- 
ing you to Mont Saint Michel, Monsieur de 
Rablotiere." 

The night was moonless and but fitfully 
starlit between scudding clouds when our 
band, two hundred strong, marched out from 
Pont Orson across the sands, between the ebb 
and flow of the tide. The Mount loomed be- 
fore us uncommonly grim and sinister, as it 
seemed to me. I am no coward, but the 
consciousness that I was on no honourable 



270 French Abbeys 

errand oppressed me horribly. At that mo- 
ment what the Abbey had stood for in the 
past (that Christianity which is the common 
heritage of Romanist and Huguenot) ap- 
pealed to me. I thought of the order of 
knighthood instituted here, and seemed to 
see the chevaliers kneeling in their pillared 
hall. I saw, too, the building monks making 
their beloved Abbey strong, and carrying 
such a passion into their incredible labour 
that the intractable granite flowered into 
beauty, and even the drudgery of quarrying 
and hauling the heavy masses of stone be- 
came pure joy. 

And with these pictures in my mind I 
almost forgot that the old days of sanctity 
and devotion were past, that the commend- 
atory Abbot of Mont Saint Michel was a child 
of the house of Lorraine, but five years of 
age, and that the Sieur de Boissuze, who was 
deputed military governor of the Abbey, was 
a cut -throat scoundrel. 

Led by a sure guide we threaded the quick- 
sands, and presented ourselves silently be- 
neath the wall at the spot appointed, at the 
foot of the cliff beneath the merveille. Silent 
and ominous that wall of masonry lifted itself 
above our heads, with but one light twink- 




ENTRANCE TO THE ABBEY OF MONT SAINT MICHEL. 



i 

4 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 271 

ling from a window in the salle du cellier, in 
the lowest of the three stories, but still high 
in air. 

It was Goupigny's signal that all was well, 
and that he was in waiting. 

There was a little platform jutting from this 
window, with a windlass, by which the monks 
were in the habit of hoisting their provisions. 
Goupigny and a confederate were at the 
windlass, and would pull us up silently until 
enough had gathered in the cellier to assault 
the corps de guard. 

Montgomery liked the trick by which we 
were to enter as little as I, but he had given 
his consent, and was there to stand by the 
event. Other faces showed blanched in the 
moonlight beside our own. I remember that 
as the rope swung down by which Goupigny 
was to hoist us, a great fellow marching next 
to me, whose bravery had never been im- 
peached, was trembling like a leaf. He strove 
to wrench a ring from his little finger, asking 
me the while to give it to his wife if he never 
came down; but his finger had thickened 
about it since his wife gave it to him, and he 
needs must let it be. 

One by one our men swung upward, dang- 
ling like gallows' prey between sky and land. 



272 French Abbeys 

Not a sound came back to us after they 
stepped within the window, and in this fear- 
some stillness ninety of our two hundred 
mounted. At last Montgomery grew uneasy, 
for he saw lights springing forth here and 
there in other parts of the building, and they 
were streaming from the Almonry, a great 
hall communicating with the cellier; but we 
were too far beneath to see figures flitting 
about or to hear the clash of arms, and could 
not surmise what devil's work was going on. 

So when Goupigny shouted, "Holloa! 
there, Montgomery. Come up, the fight is 
on!" he sprang to the rope; but I held him 
back; and the Sieur de Sourdeval, sharing 
my suspicions that treachery might be afoot, 
cried, "Throw us down a dead monk, Gou- 
pigny, to prove what you say." 

There was no answer for what seemed to us 
a long space, and then with arms outstretched 
like the wings of a great bird of prey, there 
fell at my feet the coipse of a monk. Sourde- 
val, a little farther away than I, cried, "It is 
all right, Montgomery. See, the monks fly!" 

But I knelt at the dead man's side ; his face, 
even if I had known him, was unrecognisable, 
for it had been mangled not alone by the fall, 
but by many slashes before the unfortunate 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 273 

had been cast from the window. "This is no 
work of my honest fellow-soldiers," I thought 
as I marked the brutal gashes, and I disposed 
his arm so that the sleeve of the frock covered 
the mutilated face. As I did so, my eye 
caught an object which startled me so that 
the blood rushed back upon my heart, — a 
ring upon the little finger, sunk deep into the 
flesh. 

I could not be certain that this was my 
comrade at arms whom they had dressed as a 
monk to deceive us ; for all I knew to the con- 
trary, the monks might also wear their sweet- 
hearts' rings. But I snatched the rope from 
Montgomery's hand, saying, "Let me go up 
first. I will find out what they are doing up 
there. Follow not unless I call you." 

As I reached the platform Goupigny 
clutched my arm with a grip which I knew 
betokened no friendship; but his look of 
exultation as I faced the flaring cresset 
changed to one of disappointment. "It is not 
Montgomery," he cried, "but only his truck- 
ling minion, Raoul de Rablotiere." 

Then a dozen men threw me to the earth, 
overpowered and disarmed me, and dragged 
me into the next hall, and I knew that I was 
in the jaws of death. 



274 French Abbeys 

But what froze my blood at this supreme 
moment was not fear for my personal safety, 
but a great horror of what I saw, for I stood 
in a human slaughter-house. The pavement 
was slippery beneath my feet with the blood 
of my ninety murdered comrades, whose 
corpses were stacked like faggots on every 
side. 

A brawny executioner, stripped to his 
waist, and red to his elbows, lifted a dripping 
sabre, and Goupigny pushed me tow^ard a 
block hacked by many cuts. "On your 
knees," he sneered, "and I only wish Ma- 
demoiselle de Folleville could see us now." 

At that word a dark-eyed, dark -faced man 
in the garb of a novice darted across the room, 
struck Goupigny in the face, and returning 
spoke passionately to the Governor of the 
garrison. It was the Spaniard, my escaped 
prisoner, and I could see that he was begging 
for my life. 

I had scarcely time for recognition, none to 
wonder at his act, or at his monastic dress, for 
Boissuze, the monster who had instituted all 
this villainy, roared to Goupigny to hold his 
tongue, and to the headsman to put by his 
sword. 

"Young man," he said to me, "if you do 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 275 

not care to join your comrades, listen to what 
I say. We are impatient to welcome Mont- 
gomery. He should not lag thus behind his 
men. Go to that window, and shout to him 
that all is well, and you have my pledge that 
you, and you alone of all his command, shall 
leave Mont Saint Michel in safety." I made 
no reply, not that I had any intention of 
consenting to such infamy, but I am slow 
at speech, and the revolt in my soul was too 
great for words. He mistook my silence. 

The Spaniard approached me. "I beseech 
you to save your life, Signor, for her sake," he 
said in a low voice. A great astonishment 
filled me. "I will explain afterward," he said, 
' ' only go, go at once, and do as the commander 
bids you. Your refusal will avail your friends 
nothing." 

They pushed me to the window, and the 
cool night air revived me somewhat (for what 
I had seen had sickened me) . A great longing 
for life surged up within me. Somehow the 
words of the Spaniard had convinced me that 
1 had misjudged Coralie, and that she was 
true to me in spite of all. Even so I would 
not win her by foul means, and putting 
that temptation behind me, I craned forth 
from the window like a gargoyle, my hands 



276 French Abbeys 

clutching the sill, while some of those within 
held nie by my heels. I could see my 
friends, and Montgomery saw me. "Is all 
well, Rablotiere?" he cried. "Nay, nay!" I 
shouted. ' ' Treason ! A trap ! A trap ! Flee 
for your life!" 

With that they pulled me in so violently 
that my head struck the floor, and I swooned 
with the pain, believing all at an end for me 
in this world. 

But when I came to my senses I found my- 
self alone, save for the Spaniard, who was 
bathing my face, and for Boissuze, w^ho 
towered over us. 

' ' 'T was the prettiest thing I have seen in 
all my life," said he. "Will you bide as my 
lieutenant, lad? No? I thought not. Well, 
go to your dear Montgomery. I would I had 
any one in my command who loved me so 
well." ^ . 

With that he clanked off, and the Spaniard 
led me, by many staircases and winding 
passages, to the shore, whence we were guided 
by a monk who knew the way between the 
dangerous quicksands to the mainland, which 
Montgomery, believing me past mortal aid, 
had already regained with the remnant of his 
command. 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 277 

I have remarked on the ominous silence of 
the Abbey as it lay in wait for us. Now, on 
the contrary, as we retreated, its great bells 
boomed out its triumph and defiance. I have 
heard nothing in all my life more awful than 
the clangour of those bells, tolling with such 
fiendish glee the death of so many brave men. 

There came to me, however, a light even 
in that gloom, for on the way I besought the 
Spaniard to tell me what he meant when he 
urged me to save my hfe for Mademoiselle's 
sake. 

"Because she loves you," he replied, "and 
methinks you should know it already." 

"But I heard her admit to Montgomery 
that she loved you," I answered. 

"Think over what she said," the Spaniard 
returned. "I was standing on the spiral 
staircase with the door ajar, and I, too, heard 
her, but I attached no such meaning to her 
words." 

"They were plain enough," I replied, "and 
they are graven indelibly upon my memory: 
'You have spoken truly,' she said to Mont- 
gomery, 'the man whom I love is beneath 
this roof ' ; and you have just admitted that 
you were there." 

"But was I then her only guest?" the 



278 French Abbeys 

Spaniard asked with a smile. ''You were 
beneath her roof at the same time. Had she 
given you no reason to believe that she loved 
you? Ought you not to have understood 
her ? After you went away it was long before 
we could bring her from that swoon, and her 
first words to me on awaking were to bid me 
leave her chateau, for she had saved my life 
at the expense of her own happiness, 

"Fortunately, one of the Malouin fishing 
boats touched at Lion-sur-Mer that night and 
brought me to this Abbey. When I learned 
of the fate of the Armada, I gladly took upon 
myself the vows of a monk. I am horrified 
by what has been done here. It is that 
ruffian Boissuze who is responsible, and not 
the main body of the monks, who knew 
nothing of what was passing. Lay not that 
crime to the brotherhood. 

' ' Tell Mademoiselle that I congratulate her, 
as I could not have done had you taken my 
advice and saved yotu life at the expense of 
your honour, — and so farewell." 

It was years before I could blot the memory 
of what I had seen at Mont Saint Michel from 
my mental vision. Waking or dreaming, that 
ghastly human shambles was before my eyes, 
insomuch that when the wars were over and 



Mademoiselle de Folleville 279 

the Comte de Montgomery being offered the 
command of the garrison, and in spite of his 
former ambition desiring to depute this post 
to me, I, still less than he, could endure to 
abide there, or even to hear the tolling of its 
bells across the sands, but gave the Mount a 
wide berth in all my journeys. 

It was a misfortunate asylum for Gou- 
pigny, for I heard that a dismantled hulk 
(conceived to be that of one of the Spanish 
galleons) drifting into the bay shortly after 
our visit, he went out to it secretly at low tide, 
seeking treasure, and was sucked under by 
the quicksands. 

And what. more is there to say? 

Surely, unless my reader is as dull of wit 
as he who writes these memoirs, needs not 
that I make more plain what even I under- 
stood at last, that my dear lady, knowing 
well my loyalty to my friend, and that for his 
sake I would never have wooed her in her 
proper person, had deceived me for my own 
unutterable gain. My eyes being now opened; 
I made immediate opportunity to betake my- 
self to Lion-sur-Mer, and there was I received 
as one from the dead, for rumour had it that 
I had perished in that horrible massacre. 

And now that Henri of Navarre is crowned, 



2 So French Abbeys 

and toleration the fashion, there is respect on 
both sides for the other's reUgion, which in 
all true men and women I have found differs 
but in the outward expression, and is the same 
at heart. 

So, though the Lady of Lion-sur-Mer still 
goes to the Mass and I to the preaching, there 
is no happier husband in all France than 
I, nor more contented wife, as I oft hear 
Madame de Rablotiere declare, than she who 
was once Mademoiselle de Folleville. 



I 




CHAPTER XIII 

A FUGITIVE ABBOT 

IN all Normandy there is no Abbey so en- 
^ chanting in its ruin as Saint Wandrille. 
Nature has dealt tenderly with it: where an 
arch has been broken, the ivy flings its fes- 
toons ; where a stone is missing, a wild flower 
stops the chink. It hides itself coquettishly 
a little apart from the ordinary track of 
tourists, but is a favourite haunt of artists, 
and easy of access from Caudebec or 
Yvetot. 

Though a small Abbey, it is one which has 
grown in beauty through the centuries. 
Exquisite bits of early Gothic and sturdy 
earlier Norman are to be found here side by 
side; but most conspicuous of all is the style 
which the Pompadour made the vogue in the 
eighteenth century. 

Graceful but ostentatious, it tells us that 

28r 



2«2 



French Abbeys 



men of noble family who spent the major part 
of their lives at Court loved to make the 
Abbey a luxurious retreat for lazy day-dreams 
in the intervals of a too fatiguing social life. 
And such were its Commendatory Abbots, vo- 
luptuaries whose dilletante taste might well 
have planned this little palace, but who would 
hardly have lavished their wealth upon so 
hidden a paradise. Who, then, was the man 
whose munificent generosity executed these 
later buildings ? 

The guardian who showed them had her 
tradition of a nameless benefactor, who, for 
the sake of the woman he loved, gave up all 
this otium cum dignitate on the very day upon 
which he was appointed Abbot. 

The proof that the legend was true lay to 
her simple mind in the fact that it was all 
written out in a time-yellowed manuscript, 
said to have been discovered in Canada, 
which some visitor had left at Saint Wandrille. 

It was a strange story that we read under 
the broken arches, but its strangest part is 
confirmed and vouched for in the Relations 
of the Jesuits, and some warfare like this 
must have been fought out in those tor- 
tured hearts ere they found their way to 
peace. 





> i 

X r^ 



Eg 



~ > "iZ, 

> cc [Z 

< 3 O 



A Fugitive Abbot 283 

THE MANUSCRIPT 

I cannot remember the time when I did not 
love Madeleine de Chauvigny. 

Our fathers' estates joined, and were sepa- 
rated only by a brawling stream, which was 
our favourite resort. I know now that we 
saw so much of one another because the 
garde-chasse to whom I was entrusted was in 
love with the little girl's nurse, and the brook 
was their try sting-place. It was for this reason 
that my Isidore showed me how to set otter- 
traps on its banks, and built the rustic bridge 
which was crossed so often by our childish 
feet, and that Madeleine's Opportune was al- 
ways seeking for berries or herbs on our side of 
the stream, while their charges speared frogs 
and built dams or climbed the trees for birds' 
nests. 

Later we rode to hounds in company, for 
Madeleine was something of a tomboy and a 
good comrade. We quarrelled at times, as 
over the question as to which of us it was who 
killed the boar. And this incident I may as 
well relate, as it is a typical one. I was 
fourteen then, she twelve. It was the sum- 
mer before we were both sent away to school 
— and the beginning of our troubles. 

We were hunting with Isidore, the hounds 



284 French Abbeys 

in full cry, following, as we supposed, a deer; 
but the ground was hard, the track faint, and 
when we came up with the dogs we found a 
boar at bay. 

I flung my reins to Madeleine, sprang to my 
feet, and took aim at short range; but she, 
carried away by the excitement of the mo- 
ment, lifted her gun to shoulder and fired 
without dismounting. It was a reckless thing 
to do, for I might have been killed. I heard 
her bullet sing past my ear and bury itself in 
the trunk of a tree at the very instant that 
my own pierced the brain of the boar. 

Isidore arrived a moment later and gave 
the creature its coup de grace with his hunting- 
knife, but it had already received a death- 
wound. 

' ' I killed it , " Madeleine boasted. ' ' I saved 
Rene's life." 

"Indeed, you very nearly took my life," I 
retorted angrily; "and I will thank you not 
to do so again." 

We wrangled all the way home, Madeleine 
insisting that it was my shot which had gone 
wild, and finally bursting into tears, and de- 
claring that even if it were not so, if I cared 
for her at all I would have given her the credit 
of the exploit . 



A Fugitive Abbot 285 

That put a new face upon the matter, and 
I yielded at once, letting her tell the story 
in her own way, and allowing myself to be 
ridiculed for my poor marksmanship ; the ex- 
asperating effect of this magnanimity being 
that she grew to believe her own version, and 
I got no credit, even in her own eyes, for my 
generosity. 

It was our last quarrel for many a long day, 
for that summer my mother died, and my 
home-life ended. The monks of Saint Wan- 
drille at this time conducted a pensionnat for 
ten boys destined to be choristers, and my 
father taking counsel of his friend, Francois 
de Harlay, Archbishop of Rouen, I was sent 
to their school. 

Music was my passion. There was a good 
organ in the chapel, and the choirmasters of 
the Abbey had been musicians from the time 
of Gervold. I spent three years at Saint 
Wandrille in uneventful but congenial study, 
when I was summoned to the chateau by the 
death of my father. My future was now to be 
decided upon with my guardian, but before it 
came to that I felt that I must see Madeleine 
de Chauvigny; and she was at home now, 
having returned from the Ursuline convent 
where she had received her education. 



286 French. Abbeys 

I met her leaning on the rail of the rustic 
bridge as I took the path through the park to 
her father's chateau, and I was at her side at 
once, striving to pour forth my declaration. 

Striving, I say, for I had but blundered into 
it when she stopped me. "I never was like 
other girls, Rene," she said kindly; "I am 
less so now. I would not make a good 
wife." 

"No matter," I cried, "but you are a capital 
good fellow, Madeleine. Only say you do not 
detest me, and we will be two boon com- 
panions, as in the old days." 

"Nay, but listen, Rene. The reason lies 
deeper than you think. It is not you but 
marriage itself that I detest; and if you care 
for me as much as you say, you can help me 
now. You asked me a moment ago to inter- 
cede with my father for you. You need no 
intercession. He told me this morning that 
he would offer my hand to you through your 
guardian before you leave the chateau. Only 
tell him that you refuse the honour, and I 
shall believe that there is such a thing as 
disinterested friendship." 

' ' Refuse you, Madeleine !,' ' I cried ; ' ' never ! ' ' 

"Very well, then, I shall have to defy you 
both, and if you knew how difficult my father 



A Fugitive Abbot 287 

is, Rene, I think you would be willing to make 
things easier for me." 

"But what will you do with your life?" I 
asked. 

"When I can bend circumstances to my 
will, I shall go back to the Ursulines, and be- 
come a nun." 

"You a nun, Madeleine! You could not 
endure that slavery." 

"I have lived with them three years. I 
should know by this time what it is. Be as- 
sured that I would not take this step unless I 
saw in it the way to a career. I cannot tell 
you all, Rene, but I have not surrendered my 
ambition. I have my idea!" 

I did not wholly understand her schemes. 
I thought she was dreaming of becoming 
Abbess of the convent. What I did under- 
stand was that I was as nothing in her plans. 
Nothing, unless I could help to their realisa- 
tion, and for that she would walk unscrupu- 
lously on my heart. 

"Have your own way," I replied bitterly, 
when this had dawned upon me, "for if these 
are your true feelings, nothing would induce 
me to marry you." 

It was in this surly mood that I debated 
my vocation with my guardian. 



288 French Abbeys 

"Had your father been spared," he said, 
"he would have secured for you an appoint- 
ment in the army. Alas ! I have no influence 
in that direction ; but Monsieur de Chauvigny 
offers with his daughter wealth which will 
unlock any career. Your refusal of his propo- 
sition is unalterable?" 

"Absolutely so." 

"Then I must say, my dear Rene, that I do 
not see what you propose to do." 

"I have som.e means, I suppose?" 

"Ample, ample, for the aimless life of a 
country gentleman ; but is that your choice ? " 

"Not at all. I shall go back to Saint Wan- 
drille. Thank heaven, I have learned to love 
it. I will become a monk." 

"God forbid!" exclaimed the Archbishop; 
and this ejaculation coming from such a 
source greatly surprised me. 

"My dear boy," he explained, "you shall 
not with my consent take upon yourself 
sacred vows from mere pique. Go back to 
Saint Wandrille, if you choose ; interest your- 
self in its restoration, as its patron, if it 
pleases you so to do, but remain free until 
your majority, that you may not in after 
years reproach yourself and me for the deci- 
sion of this hour." 



A Fugitive Abbot 289 

So I returned to my dear Abbey at a most 
interesting period in its history. Beautiful it 
had always been from the time that Wan- 
drille, friend and courtier of Dagobert, first 
founded it. But it had suffered cruelly in the 
Huguenot wars, when Gabriel de Montgomery 
mutilated its noble buildings. The pathos of 
its broken arches was most appealing. The 
monks laboured with trowel and chisel, hod 
and barrow to repair the ravages. I thought of 
my old love no longer with rancour, but with 
gentle melancholy, and in my twenty -first year 
I assured the good Archbishop that I had def- 
initely made up my mind to devote myself to 
the religious life and my fortune to the Abbey. 

He consented on condition that I would go 
with him to Versailles and lead for a season 
the life of a man of the world, that I might 
know what I was relinquishing. Francois de 
Harlay has been called a worldly prelate, but 
he used the world as an instrument for the 
Church. He knew that preferment came 
through the influence of women, and he had 
even then the design of asking for me from the 
King the promise of appointment as Abbe 
Commendataire of Saint Wandrille, when the 
then aged incumbent should be gathered to 
his fathers. 



290 French Abbeys 

I was accordingly introduced to the most 
prominent Court Ladies, my talent for music 
being the opening wedge. I led the choristers 
at the royal chapel, played in several of the 
great churches of Paris, and, finally, highest 
honour and privilege ! was invited by a reign- 
ing beauty to accompany at her salon an opera 
singer then the rage. The lady's name was 
Madame de la Peltrie. I had heard her spoken 
of as one of the most popular of the women 
of the Court, but I knew not to what I owed 
my invitation until I recognised in my hostess 
none other than Madeleine de Chauvigny. 

To find her leading a mundane, frivolous 
life, and married to a man in every way my 
inferior, when I had fancied her a professed 
nun, and was about myself to take vows be- 
cause of her influence and example, was indeed 
a violent shock. I was rude to her, I know, 
disregarding her extended hand, and passing 
at once to the harpsichord, where I punished 
the unoffending instrument for my displeas- 
ure. I played vilely and offended the vocalist 
by my inattention and discourtesy, and I could 
think of no taunt cruel enough to launch 
against the woman I, had loved. 

"So this is the way in which you forsake 
the world and mortify the flesh," I said to her 




Ill 



UJ 



O Z 




A Fugitive Abbot 291 

in a low voice when she approached me with 
eager appeal crying to me from every feature 
of her expressive face. 

She winced, for the blow had struck home, 
but there were wondering eyes fixed upon us, 
and she replied, quite as though I had asked 
a question in regard to the songs which I was 
turning over: 

• "Yes, it is exceptional, this old chanson 
which I have chosen as my part in our little 
performance; but it should present no diffi- 
culties for you. Monsieur. I was sure you 
would understand it." 

And then she sang, in a thin voice, with no 
power or range, but with infinite pathos, 
'' U habit le moine ne fait pas.'' 

To my ear it was a confession that her life 
was one long penance. If she suffered, I told 
myself, she deserved to do so; but I thought 
it mere pose and dissembling like the affecta- 
tion of enthusiasm of the other ladies for the 
Canadian missions. Their patroness, the 
Duchesse d'Aiguillon, was present, and all 
the talk was of the Society of Jesus, then so 
much the vogue. 

"Zeal for martyrdom, indeed!" I said to 
my guardian afterward; "they are a set of 
hypocrites, who make fanatics of silly women. 



292 French Abbeys 

How many of them would endure the least 
pain for the sake of the souls of the Indians 
for which they pretend such concern ? ' ' 

"Softly, softly!" said the Archbishop; "the 
Jesuits practise what they preach, and are 
many of them heroes." 

"The more fools they," I insisted. "Does 
God call us to martyrdom now ? Can we not 
serve Him while enjoying with thankfulness 
the comforts which He gives us?" 

As, for instance, the Abbacy of Saint Wan- 
drille?" the Archbishop asked quizzically, 
"I had hoped so, my dear Rene; but I am 
sorry to tell you that I have not succeeded in 
gaining an audience with the King on that 
head. I fear that there is another candi- 
date with more powerful influence in the 
field." 

Not long after this experience we bade adieu 
to Versailles, my guardian retuniing to Rouen, 
and I to my chateau, as my estate demanded 
my attention. I was reminded here at every 
turn of Madeleine. Now it was Isidore, the 
garde-chasse, who referred to the time when 
she saved my life by shooting the boar. 

Her point of view had become the accepted 
tradition, though at the time Isidore had 
had his doubts. He had married Opportune, 



A Fugitive Abbot 293 

Madeleine's nurse, who annoyed me still more 
by her reminiscences. 

I had been at the chateau but a few months 
when a most unexpected crisis occurred, and 
Opportune rushed into the library, where I 
was trying to read, exclaiming: "My poor 
lamb ! My poor lamb ! He is dead ! he is dead ! ' ' 

"Monsieur de Chauvigny?" I cried, feeling 
instinctively that this touched Madeleine. 

"No, would to heaven that it were her 
father. It is Monsieur de la Peltrie who has 
just died. My poor lamb ! I must go to her, 
Monsieur." 

"Stop!" I commanded. "Tell me the 
truth, Opportune. Is not this event a re- 
lease for Madame? I have heard that there 
was no love between them." 

"A release to the cloister. Monsieur. She 
was crazy to be a nun, but her father would 
not permit it. Now she will be still more 
possessed to leave the world, and he will not 
be able to prevent her. Ah! what a loss! 
What a shame! And she so young, so 
beautiful ! Oh ! Monsieur, you loved her once. 
Save her now." 

"Woman," I cried, "is this the time to 
think of such things? Go to her, and hold 
your tongue." 



294 French Abbeys 

She kissed my hand. "Bless you, Mon- 
sieur, for that word. It is not the time now. 
And I will hold my tongue, for you will save 
her." 

All that night I paced my room in a de- 
lirium of hope; for my love for Madeleine, 
which had never died, flamed up in my heart 
with new intensity. "Surely," I told my- 
self, "the hand of Providence is here. It 
must be for this that I am not yet a monk, 
that my guardian failed in securing the 
benefice which he desired for me, that I saw 
Madeleine at Versailles, and that she let me 
see her regret. But does she regret?" I 
asked. " Is it possible that she loves me ? If 
so, surely she will make some sign. ' ' 

Scarcely had I reached this conclusion 
after some weeks of alternate hope and de- 
spair, when she sent to me bidding me ask her 
of her father as my wife. Wonderful as this 
statement must seem, it is not so strange, so 
impossible, as the truth which lay behind it, 
for it was no ordinary marriage to which I 
was bidden. 

The messenger was a Jesuit, called Pere 
Ignace, whom I liked not. at first sight, and 
whom later I was bitterly to hate. First 
pledging me to secrecy, he told me that 



A Fugitive Abbot 295 

Madeleine appealed to me as the only friend 
whom she could rely upon in a supreme mo- 
ment. She had decided to go to Canada as 
missionary to the little Indian girls; but her 
father, who had previously thwarted her 
vocation, was so unalterably opposed to this 
desire, that he had threatened to disinherit 
her, insisting that she should immediately 
remarry as guarantee that she would not adopt 
a religious life after his death. 

Madame de la Peltrie desired to secure his 
fortune for her enterprise, and begged to be 
allowed time; but Monsieur de Chauvigny, 
knowing himself to be the victim of an in- 
curable disease, demanded an instant carry- 
ing out of his commands. 

In this emergency the Jesuit felt that a 
pious subterfuge was allowable, and suggested 
a sham marriage to quiet the father's fears. 
The only embarrassment so far was to find 
a disinterested gentleman who would oblige 
them by going through with a mock ceremony, 
and so conduct himself afterward that Mon- 
sieur de Chauvigny would have no suspicions. 

It was Madeleine's father who had unwit- 
tingly suggested me. He had marked my 
continued presence in the neighbourhood, 
and had recalled my former refusal of his 



296 French Abbeys 

daughter's hand. " I beheve on my soul that 
yovi were at the bottom of that," he had 
said to Madeleine, "and that the lad loves 
you still. I would die content if I could 
see you his wife." 

"Madame de la Peltrie has confided to me," 
the Jesuit added, "how entirely Monsieur de 
Chauvigny is mistaken in the nature of your 
regard for her; and this, with information 
which I have obtained from the Prior of Saint 
Wandrille that it is your intention to enter the 
cloister convinces nie that 3^ou are the man 
destined for this peculiar service." 

I broke out here with an indignant refusal 
to have an^-thing to do with such crooked 
proceedings. The wily Jesuit allowed me to 
exhaust myseh, and then returned to the 
charge with smiling persistence. 

"If I understand the drift of Monsieur's 
objections to the course of conduct which I 
suggest," he replied stiavely, "they are en- 
tirely based on a misconception which does 
honour to the sensitiveness of his conscience. 
When unusual situations face us, is it not our 
duty to refer the decision to our spiritual 
gtiides ? " 

I calmed at that, and replied that I was 
willing to submit the question to his Grace 



A Fugitive Abbot 297 

Francois de Harlay, Archbishop of Rouen, 
and the Jesuit accepted him as arbiter. 

What was my surprise a fortnight later 
when my guardian, instead of writing me that 
he had given the Jesuit his quietus, himself 
knocked at my door, having come for the 
especial purpose of forwarding the schem.e. 
I did not know until afterward that the argu- 
ment which had convinced my kind friend 
was the promise that if I served the Jesuits in 
this matter their influence would secure for 
me the Abbacy of Saint Wandrille. 

I do not now remember the arguments 
with which the Archbishop convinced me, or 
whether I was convinced at all, that what I 
was to do was honourable. I only remember 
that he gave me a little book. The Imitation 
of Christy with this passage marked to medi- 
tate upon: 

"In commanding it is possible to err, in 
obeying never." And this dictum, though it 
seemed to me a paradox, I could not set 
myself up to gainsay, so obeyed it. 

And here I must confess that I might not 
have been so yielding but for Madeleine her- 
self. While I was still recalcitrant, she 
granted me an interview by appointment at 
our old playground. The rustic bridge had 



298 French Abbeys 

fallen in ruin. "It is a bad omen," she said 
as we faced each other on opposite banks. 
"You cannot cross to me nor I to you." 

"Nay," I replied, "there is no barrier which 
can keep me from you if you will that I cross 
it," and retiring a little and taking a running 
leap I fell at her feet, and clasping her about 
the knees covered her hands with kisses. 

"Can you not see, do you not understand," 
I cried, "that the reason I cannot meet your 
wishes in this matter is that I love you too 
much to endure it. I could not bear to be 
near you, and to feign blessedness which I 
can never hope for." 

She smiled mysteriously. "And who pre- 
vents your hoping?" she asked. 

I caught her in my arms again. "Do you 
mean it? No; you are coquetting with me. 
It was the Jestiits' bidding, that all means 
are justifiable to gain your end." 

"Listen, Rene, for I am telling 3^ou the 
truth. How can we know the result of any 
step? We can only do what otir spiritual 
guides tell us is our duty. If the end is dif- 
ferent from what they and we proposed, 
surely it is God who makes it so, and it must 
be right." 

"Then if I make you love me, you will re- 



1 



A Fugitive Abbot 299 

pudiate this detestable subterfuge," I asked, 
"and be in very truth my wife?" 

"Surely," she promised, "if I love you 
enough; for in that case I shall not be able 
— I shall not wish — to do otherwise." 

That one blessed chance in ten thousand 
was enough, and after that I was as clay in 
their hands. 

So the settlements were signed and the 
sham marriage took place, Monsieur de 
Chauvigny making a new will and leaving his 
daughter all his fortune. The registrar of 
the contract was himself deceived, for when 
we both as principals and our witnesses 
signed our names — apparently in the book of 
records, — it was upon a sheet of paper 
cleverly interleaved by Pere Ignace, which 
being removed left no trace either of the 
transaction or of any mutilation of the pages. 
Also above our signatures he afterwards 
wrote out the vow of chastity, which, being 
repeated to us in Latin instead of the marriage 
office, we solemnly took upon ourselves, 
what time Monsieur de Chauvigny fondly im- 
agined that we were being united in holy 
matrimony. 

After the ceremony, which left us white as 
the dead, there was much embracing by my 



300 French Abbeys 

deluded father-in-law, congratulations by the 
wedding guests, and a banquet which choked 
me, and, without a wedding journey, I took 
Madame to my chateau, which was henceforth 
to be her home. 

The world knows by our depositions and 
those of our servants what manner of life we 
led. 

Our apartments at the chateau were con- 
nected, or rather divided, by a small boudoir, 
which was converted into the sleeping-room 
of my serving-man. That he ever really 
slept at his post I do not believe. He was at 
that time a Jesuit in novitiate, and a faithful 
sentinel, and he well knows that my foot 
never passed the threshold of my lady's 
chamber. 

Her maid kept constant guard also, and we 
were never alone together. Save for this, our 
life was like that of other husbands and wives 
of our rank. We went much into society and 
entertained much, and none of our guests sus- 
pected our double lives. I strove to reach 
her heart through music, but it never seemed 
to convey to her the message which I intended. 
I read to her from the poets while her hands 
were busy with some light fancy-work, but, 
though I watched her furtively, I caught no 



A Fugitive Abbot 301 

personal application of the eloquent passages 
which I selected. 

We talked often of the interests which we 
had in common and of those which divided 
us — the missions, which always angered me, 
and my plans for restoring the Abbey, which 
she treated with frank indifference. We 
never touched on either of these subjects 
without quarrelling, quite after the manner of 
married people as I have observed them. 

Pere Ignace smiled when he listened to our 
controversies; for, acute as he was in most 
things, he did not know that the more vio- 
lently we disputed the more we regretted 
afterward our hasty words and extravagant 
expressions. If we could only have fallen out 
more seriously there might have been com- 
plete understanding long before it came, and 
we were very near it once. 

I was reproaching her for her lack of ap- 
preciation of architecture. " If you had ever 
seen Saint Wandrille," I said, "you could not 
help loving the old Abbey as I do. Every 
stone of it is precious to me." 

"I should never care for it," she replied; 
"and the reason is that we are essentially 
different. You are interested in things, I in 
people. You in art and its masterpieces, I in 



302 French Abbeys 

history and the deeds that make history. 
You would be content to spend your Hfe Hke 
so many other unknown Abbots and archi- 
tects in making this Abbey a thing of beauty 
and then pass away, ignored and unremem- 
bered. Is it not so, Rene?" 

"Gladly," I replied, "so the Abbey were 
admired and loved." 

"Well, so would not I. I care not for love, 
but admiration I must and will have while I 
am living to enjoy it, and fame after I am 
gone. I want to do something splendid, some- 
thing worth the living, and I am willing to dare 
and to suffer for it as Joan of Arc did if I can 
have her reward. I will make the world ad- 
mire me some day. What is more, I will 
make you admire me, Rene. You smile and 
think me romantic, silly; but there will come 
a day when you will say without smiling: 
'She was a heroine.'" 

"I think," I replied, "that heroism is un- 
conscious. I do not believe that Joan of Arc 
did what she did for the sake of being ad- 
mired, but for the sake of France, simply be- 
cause God called her and she could not do 
otherwise." 

She flushed. "Is love of admiration, then, 
so despicable a motive, when it prompts to 



A Fugitive Abbot 303 

noble deeds? What is your love for your 
Abbey but placing higher value on stocks and 
stones than on human lives and souls ? You 
would have played the part of the Abbot 
of Jumieges, Nicolas le Roux. You know 
that to save his Abbey from destruction by 
the English, he became one of the judges who 
at Rouen sent Joan of Arc to the stake. 
It was a question whether his precious 
Abbey must burn or only a girl — only the Sav- 
iour of France. So, if the alternative arose, 
you would let me burn, instead of Saint 
Wandrille." 

I remembered those passionate words after- 
ward. I remember them now, and that is 
why I am where I am. 

I was on the point of telling her how much 
more than the Abbey I loved her, how will- 
ingly I would see it fall into complete ruin if 
she would but abandon her wild dreams for 
my sake. The pendulum had swung far 
enough to the wrangling side for this reaction 
— indeed, her last words seemed to challenge 
it ; when the Jesuit — -who had been pacing in 
the shrubbery and had overheard all, pre- 
sented himself blandly. 

"What, quarrelling again?" he said, 
smoothly; "this will never do, and on such 



304 French Abbeys 

entirely reconcilable lines. The aims to 
which you have individually so solemnly de- 
voted yourselves are incontestably best for 
each. As Madarne could only be happy in 
the career of heroic achievement which she 
has chosen, so Monsieur's temperament fits 
him for a life of solitude and study. Do not 
quarrel, my children, because your natures 
are incompatible. Be thankful that you are 
not fettered for life in a relation which would 
have meant not alone the relinquishment of 
your highest ambitions, but the intolerable 
friction of discordant tastes and unreconcil- 
able opinions." 

I was silent, devouring Madeleine's face for 
some sign of revolt from this dictum, but there 
was none visible. Except for that outburst 
of anger, she held herself in admirable self- 
control ; but for me the situation became more 
and more impossible, and who with the spirit 
of a man could have borne such an ordeal? 

The inevitable thunderbolt which was to 
clear the atmosphere came with the death of 
Monsieur de Chauvigny, a sudden death 
though possible at any time, as we had long 
known. It was after the interment that Pere 
Ignace voiced the thought which was upper- 
most in my mind. 



A Fugitive Abbot 305 

"And now that all need of concealment is 
removed, the truth as to your relations must 
be announced to the world." 

"Yes," I replied, eagerly; "no more deceit, 
the truth, the real truth." 

"Not yet," Madeleine pleaded. "Let the 
will be read first, and the property secured to 
me. It is my desire that the revelation shall 
be made at Tours, at the Ursuline convent 
where I was educated, in the presence of the 
dear Mother Superior and of all the nuns 
whom I loved. They shall elect from their 
number the Abbess of the convent which I 
will found in Canada. Invite the Duchesse 
dAiguillon, the Archbishop of Rouen, and 
whom you will to be present. Let it be 
a very formal as well as sacred ceremonial, 
but do not mar it by any premature an- 
nouncement." 

Madeleine's legal business was at last com- 
pleted, and her property so arranged that a 
signature or two could turn it over to the 
purpose which she contem.plated. There was 
no longer any excuse for delay, and we set 
out for Tours in a travelling carriage, accom- 
panied by Pere Ignace. 

For four days we rode together, the longest 
and the shortest of my life. The shortest, for 



3o6 French Abbeys 

creep as we might each evening brought us in- 
exorably nearer the end. The longest, be- 
cause I lived much in that time, — seeing all 
my past and all my future with the clearness 
which comes to men upon their deathbeds. 
I said nothing, for Pere Ignace was always 
seated opposite, apparently absorbed in his 
breviary, though I know that he read my feel- 
ings in my tell-tale face, for more than once 
he laid his book open upon his knee, and we 
could see unfolded within its leaves a written 
paper bearing our signatures, the vow of chas- 
tity which we had signed in the Hotel de Ville, 
when the wedding guests imagined that we 
were recording our names in the register of 
marriages. 

Madeleine did not recognise this paper until 
the last afternoon of our journey. We had 
reached Saint Symphorien, the northern fau- 
bourg of Tours, and the last stage of our jour- 
ney. As we alighted at an inn for supper, 
Madeleine remarked on the beauty of the view, 
and proposed that we should walk a little way 
upon the stone bridge which spans the Loire, 
while Pere Ignace ordered supper. 

He could not refuse, but he opened his 
breviary and pointed to the pledge. She met 
his significant look with dignity. "I have 



A Fugitive Abbot 307 

not forgotten, my Father, but as this is the 
last opportunity which I shall have for a fare- 
well conversation with Monsieur de Bernieres, 
I trust that you will permit it." 

He looked at us suspiciously, and, only half 
satisfied, entered the inn, muttering that he 
would join us presently. 

"Quick, quick, Rene!" she whispered, and 
we hurried out upon the bridge. 

"That was the compact which binds us to 
our vows," she said to me in a choking voice. 

"Is it possible that you regret it?" I 
exclaimed. 

"Can you doubt it?" she replied faintly. 

"Then it is not too late," I declared. "I 
can wrench it from his hands and we shall be 
free. You can endow the mission with your 
fortune. That will appear a sufficient reason 
for this journey and the invitations you have 
sent your friends to be present, but you need 
not go. I will give up Saint Wandrille, every- 
thing for you, my love, my love!" 

She was faint with emotion, and leaned 
giddily on the parapet of the bridge. There 
was no one near, and my arms were about her. 
Passionately I begged her to reconsider her 
resolution. 

"If the paper were destroyed, Pere Ignace 



3o8 French Abbeys 

would still witness against us," she an- 
swered. 

"I can silence him," I replied. "It is only 
money which he wishes. He shall have all of 
yours and as much of mine as he demands." 

"But the other witnesses? We cannot be 
free so long as they live." 

"There were no other witnesses save the 
Archbishop," I protested, "and I can win 
him. The others who saw us write our nam.es 
knew not what we signed. Pere Ignace is the 
only other human being who knows of the 
existence of our vow." 

"But we know, Rene, and God was witness. 
You cannot so sin against your conscience." 

"Yes," I replied, "I can. I will give my 
salvation for your love." 

"You cannot have it on those terms," Pere 
Ignace sternly asserted. He had followed un- 
perceived, and had heard my last excited 
utterances. 

"You cannot bribe me, for I watch over her 
soul as one who must give an account." 

"Then render that account now," I cried, 
and throwing myself upon him suddenly with 
all my force I hurled him over the parapet 
and into the river. 

"Murderer!" cried Madeleine, and in that 



A Fugitive Abbot 309 

word I heard the death sentence of all my 
hopes. 

"I can swim," I panted. "Shall I save 
him? Think well what it means." 

"Save him! Save him!" she entreated; 
and I leaped the parapet and was battling the 
river for dear life — nay, but for two hateful 
lives, that of my enemy and my own, which 
was no longer dear to me. It was a harder 
matter than I thought, for he mistook my 
kind intentions and struggled in my grasp; 
but at last I brought him unconscious to the 
shore. Madeleine's cries for help had brought 
a knot of bargemen who assisted us to the inn, 
where P^re Ignace presently revived. 

"And do you tell m.e that this man saved 
my life?" he asked of the witnesses. 

"Most gallantly," they all assured him. 
"At the risk of his own," the innkeeper added, 
"for I was on the bridge, having come to call 
you to supper, and saw him leap after you 
into the water." 

Pere Ignace was silent for a space, but 
when we were alone together he said : ' ' Even 
this bribe I will not accept, for I count my life 
as nothing as weighed against my duty." 

"And my happiness is nothing," I replied, 
"in comparison with hers. I relinquish all." 



3IO French Abbeys 

"Then, my son, I absolve you," he said, 
kindly, "for you have expiated your fault. 
There are none who are not tempted. You 
have my respect and my silence." 

I need not relate, for it is everywhere 
known, how the next day in the chapel of the 
Ursulines Madeleine and I publicly repu- 
diated and relinquished each other, and how 
a few weeks later the little band of devoted 
women sailed from Brest, followed by the 
prayers and tears of a vast multitude. 

Madeleine was heroic to the last; but my 
guardian led me away half demented from 
that embarkation, for my heart was broken. 
.« 

I retired to Saint Wandrille, taking the 
vows of a simple monk, and devoted all that 
J nossessed to its restoration. The dear Arch- 
bishop visited me frequently, for he loved 
to retreat to this exquisite spot from his 
many cares. He was aging sensibly, growing 
heavy in mind and body, but more benignant 
than ever. Our Abbe Commendataire never 
came near Saint Wandrille, but he filled it 
with costly objects of ecclesiastical art until 
it resembled a palace rather than a religious 
house. 

So five years passed, and one memorable 




CLOISTER OF SAINT WANDRILLE. 

By permission of Neurdein Freres. 




CLOISTER, L'ABBAYE DE LA VIGNE. 



A Fugitive Abbot 3 1 1 

day my guardian arrived with the news that 
our absentee Abbot was dead. He dehvered 
the tidings with no note of regret, but with a 
sweeping gesture which took in the sump- 
tuously appointed hbrary added: "It is a 
well-hned nest which his successor will enjoy, 
is it not, my Rene?" 

"And to think," I replied, "that our late 
Abbot never saw the luxuries which he has 
provided for a man in whom he had no 
interest." 

"Eh! What? The late Abbot provided 
all this? You are greatly mistaken, Rene. 
It was I who donated these treasures of art to 
Saint Wandrille, and they are to be enjoyed 
by a man in whom I have a very great in- 
terest. None other than Rene de Bemieres, 
the new Abbot of Saint Wandrille. Nay, do 
not look so incredulous. Here is Brother 
Xavier of the Society of Jesus, who comes 
directly from his Majesty with your appoint- 
ment. Pere Ignace has not been unmindful 
of what he and the Society at large owe you. 
The Jesuits have laboured diligently in antici- 
pation of the long-expected death of the late 
Abbot. Indeed, your credentials were signed 
two years since, and it only remained to affix 
the date to-day." 



312 French Abbeys 

I expressed my sense of obligation, but 
while I entertained my guests in the almost 
regal palais abbattal, I reflected bitterly that 
all this had come to me as the price for the 
part which I had played — the rescue of Pere 
Ignace and my supposed voluntary relinquish- 
ment of Madeleine. 

As fate would have it, another guest 
knocked at the Abbey gate that night, Father 
Jogues, a Jesuit missionary returned from 
America, having escaped after incredible tor- 
tures from the hands of the Iroquois. Taken 
captive by the heathen, he had witnessed the 
martyrdom of his associate, and had admin- 
istered the rites of religion to other captives 
as they were being burned to death. He had 
been starved, frozen, given over to the Indian 
children — true imps of Satan — to be tortured, 
and had retaliated by baptising them, thus 
snatching their souls from the clutches of the 
devil. One of his thumbs had been burned 
off in a red-hot calumet, and his hands bored 
with hot irons, until they seemed to bear the 
sacred stigmata. His savage masters had 
taken him to Albany on one of their trading 
expeditions, and the Dutch, taking pity upon 
him, had concealed and sent him to New 
York, whence he had been given passage 



while I entertaip< 'i the almost 

regal palai ed bitterly that 

all this had c. i^^^ice for the 

- - ' - T . scue of P6re 

::y relinquish- 

a other guest 

■-ht, Father 

ned from 

le tor- 

. s)m the nanas oi irie iroc^uuis. Taken 
The I^et!Lir,^.^.f^|:ti^e lE^i^j^n^^ifnessed the 

^''Sf ftii'^J^ifJ^ -^^'^"'d had admin- 

. j-^tes of relio' jther captives 

) death. He had 

ed, frozen, gi\ en over to the Indian 

ij.rue imps c'~ '-^'- 'o — to be tortured, 

retahated V ising them, thus 

their souls lutches of the 

iad been burned 

. rca-noL can ' ""^ is hands bored 

r irons, untT' 'd to bear the 

gmata masters had 

hiin to Al ; ■ their trading 

■ ;^s, and tilt ing pity upon 

concealed htni to New 

ence he 1 passage 



i 



A Fugitive Abbot 313 

to England, and had at last arrived in 
France. 

As I contrasted the living martyrdom of 
this missionary with my own life of selfish 
ease, I could but admit that if I believed what 
I professed, then he had indeed chosen the 
infinitely better part. But did I believe? 
Did the Archbishop himself believe? I saw 
him, entirely unmoved by Father Jogues's 
recital, offering his lap-dog a lump of sugar 
from his coffee, and I could scarce repress my 
indignation. 

Then suddenly overwhelming my sympathy 
for the missionary and all other considera- 
tions, like an inrushing tide came the realisa- 
tion that Madeleine was exposed to all these 
dangers, and might even now be a captive in 
the hands of these devils. 

I had thought of her as safe and com- 
paratively comfortable in the fortress of 
Quebec ; but, as I interrogated Father Jogues, 
he told us that the new mission had been 
established in the Huron village of Sil- 
lery, quite beyond the protection of the 
garrison. 

He had seen her there, caring for the In- 
dian children, who were dying with the 
smallpox, and happier in these loathsome, 



314 French Abbeys 

perilous surroundings than when she was the 
admiration of all France. 

More than this he told me, and it was the 
spark which set fire to m}^ resolve. 

He had learned in the Iroquois country 
that an incursion was to be made upon their 
hereditary enemies, the Hurons, during the 
coming season, and not the converted In- 
dians alone, but their devoted teachers anc' 
missionaries were in the greatest danger. 

He had written to Frontenac, but doubted, 
even if the inf orm.ation were received, that the 
heroic little band of Ursulines could be per- 
suaded to abandon their mission. 

Not a moment did I sleep that night. The 
Iroquois would not go upon the war-path, 
Father Jogues had explained, until mid- 
summer. I would have time to reach Can- 
ada if I left at once; and my resolution was 
quickly taken. The manner of my going 
alone remained to be decided upon. Should 
I, after resigning my new sinecure, endeavour 
to be freed from all religious vows and join 
the army, or be transferred into the Society 
of Jesus ? Either alternative demanded time, 
and submitted me to slavery. If I were to 
save Madeleine at this juncture, I must go at 
once — and secretly. I therefore delayed only 



A Fugitive Abbot 315 

to speed my guests, not even taking my 
guardian into my confidence, for I knew how 
he would oppose the step. 

I kept back suspicion and search for a time 
by telHng the Prior of the Abbey that I was 
going to Paris and would be absent for several 
weeks, engaged upon matters pertaining to 
my new appointment, and so left Saint 
yandrille for ever. 

Disguised as an emigrant, I took passage a 
few days later in a ship which I was fortunate 
enough to find about to sail for Canada. But 
arrived at Quebec, my story of having met 
Father Jogues was not believed by the Comte 
de Frontenac. 

The Iroquois had sent messengers of peace 
to the last conference ; there seemed to be no 
danger of an incursion, and no soldiers were 
posted at the Sillery Mission. 

Despairing, powerless to protect the woman 
I loved, knowing that it would be worse than 
useless to make myself known to her, I still 
visited Sillery and talked with the converted 
Indians. I found them devoted to their mis- 
sionaries, for whom they had built a chapel 
and some huts. I warned them of the hostile 
intentions of the Iroquois, and was comforted 
by their promise to be on their guard, and to 



3i6 French Abbeys 

protect their benefactresses with their hves. 
I spoke to Mother Marie de I'lncarnation, and 
I saw thee, Madeleine, bending over a sick 
child, but I left the village, making no sign. I 
could not, however, leave its neighbourhood, 
and in reconnoitring the site, I saw that a 
promontory to the west commanded a view 
not alone of the village nestling at its foot, 
but of the reaches of the river. A sentinel 
posted here could descry the first approach of 
the war-canoes of the Iroquois, and I resolved 
to be that sentinel. Here, my Madeleine, I 
abide in the guise of a hermit. Each morning 
I behold the smoke curl upward from the rude 
cabin which serves thee as a cloister; and 
when I note thy slight figure leading the little 
Indian girls to the chapel, I kneel before the 
cross which I have carved in the bark of the 
tree before the door of my cave and join thee in 
thy devotions. My gun and my spy -glass stand 
side by side. I have arranged a series of signals 
with the Hurons : a pennant from the top of the 
blasted pine by day, a lantern by night, to 
tell of the approach of danger. And here I will 
guard thee and thy work until death do us part. 

The story of Rene de Bemieres ended 
abruptly here. 



A Fugitive Abbot 317 

Upon the envelope in another hand was 
this endorsement: 

"This MS. was discovered buried in a 
metal box in 'The Hermit's Cave' near Sil- 
lery. The locality bore its name from the 
fact that a human skeleton, supposed to be 
that of an unknown man, whose presence 
many years before had provoked much curi- 
osity, had been found here. Its position, 
with the knees dra,wn up, and the skull 
crushed as though by an Indian war-club, 
seemed to imply that the mysterious stranger 
had been surprised while sleeping, and had 
thus met his death at the hands of the 
Iroquois." 

Madame de la Peltrie removed with her 
companions from Sillery before the incursion, 
and lived to old age. Her romantic adven- 
tures are still related with admiration by the 
Ursulines of Canada. 




CHAPTER XIV 

THE SIN OF ABBOT NICOLAS 

"La vieillesse couronne et la mine acheve, 
II faut a I'edifice un passe dont on reve 
Deuil, triomphe ou remords. 

"Muette en sa douleur Jumiege gravement 
Etouffe un triste echo sous son portail Normand, 

Bien souvent le passe couvre plus d'un secret 
Dont sur un mur vieilli la tache reparait. 
Est ce qu'aucun noir forfait, seme dans ta racine. 
Pour Jeter quel que jour son ombre a ta mine, 
Ne mele a tes lauriers son feuillage hideux?" 

Victor Hugo. 

STATELY and masterful the twin towers 
of the Abbey of Jumieges still dominate 
in lordly dignity the beautiful ruins of the 
once powerful monastery, and the long, level 
reaches of the Abbey seignory, bounded by 

318 




'"^-■"f^pr- 




o > 

> J 



■J- P. 
° N 

CO PQ 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 319 

the great loop of the Seine. Rouen lies just 
to the east, hidden by a purple haze, but as 
far as the eye can discern all is solitude and 
peace; the tiny hamlet at the Abbey gate 
has fallen asleep and the ringing of the 
reapers' scythes in the meadows is the only 
sound that strikes the ear. But the roofless 
ruin is lovingly guarded, the strong Norman 
towers will resist the tooth of time for many 
a century, and Jumieges may, perhaps, be 
the last of the Abbeys to crumble, as she was 
among the first to rise. For the annals of the 
Abbey antedate the authentic history of 
France. Its best -known tradition is that of 
the coming of the enerves, the two rebellious 
sons of Colodowig II. and Queen Bathilde, who, 
with the muscles of their legs and arm severed, 
were laid in an open boat and set adrift upon 
the Seine, to be carried to their death. 

The current brought them, instead, to Ju- 
mieges, where the monks received and kindly 
cared for them in their helplessness. Their 
tombs are still preserved in the little museum 
of the Abbey, the mutilated efligies of the 
Merovingian princes, with their long hair 
bound by narrow crowns, and their belted 
robes and mantles witnessing to the origin 
of the legend. 



320 French Abbeys 

But another tomb stirs a Hveher interest 
than can be evoked by these almost mythical 
personages. It is that of the gentle and 
beautiful Agnes, Lady of the Manor of Mesnil- 
sous-Jumieges. Of her unpretending home, 
to which she returned to die, there remains 
little to reward the sight-seer. Perhaps in 
her own time it was as tmostentatious, cur- 
tained from view by purple-tasselled wistaria, 
a hidden retreat from the burden of mag- 
nificent notoriety. The same sweet scents 
of blossoming lilacs must have environed it, 
for 

"L'air du pays et demeurance heureuse 
A ne sais je quoi de douceur amoureuse, 
Qui laisse au cceur un joyeux souvenir, 
Et Vappetit d'y voiiloir revenir." 

Not such the scents which linger in memory 
as we think of the Abbey of Jumieges. Its 
beauty of clinging vine and sculptured stone 
was marred for us that sultry day by an in- 
definable suffocating odor, vaguely disagree- 
able, pervasive yet inexplicable. 

"It is the smoke from brush -heaps which 
the peasants are burning in the fields," said 
the gate-keeper. 

"It is otir dinner burning uncared-for in the 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 321 

kitchen," we said to the innkeeper, as we 
took our seats in the worst hostelry in all 
Normandy. The Inn of the Enervated Ones, 
F. persisted in translating the inscription 
upon its sign-board, declaring that no guest, 
unless disabled as completely as the two 
Merovingian princes, could have refrained 
from fleeing at the first whiff of the fetid fumes 
which now assailed our nostrils. 

"You perceive it, then, a faint but noisome 
scent of scorching flesh?" remarked a man in 
black, who, like us, was awaiting service in 
the dining-room of the inn. "Have no 
solicitude, it is not your dinner which is being 
consumed. Do you not detect also the acrid 
smoke of pitch and the nauseating fumes of 
sulphur ? ' ' 

'T cannot analyse its composition," I re- 
plied, "but it is the most un-Christian odour 
which I have ever encountered, and my 
experience in Italy and France has been 
comprehensive . ' ' 

The stranger bowed. " ' Un-Christian,' Ma- 
dame, is its precise designation, for it has 
to do with a crime — the burnt -offering of the 
Abbot of Jumieges. He bears the weight of 
opprobrium, though the sin was shared by all 
the Norman Abbots of his time, for they saved 



32 2 French Abbeys 

their Abbeys from destruction by comphcity 
in the same shameful sacrifice." 

Perceiving a story in perspective, we 
feigned entire ignorance, and the stranger 
launched eagerly forth, giving, with more of 
detail than memory serves to reproduce, the 
substance of the following tale : 

Nicolas le Roux, in the early half of the fif- 
teenth century, fifty -ninth Abbot of Jumieges, 
loved his Abbey more than his own soul, and 
this he would have confessed, for he counted 
it to himself as a virtue. It was such a 
magnificent and venerable Abbey, of such 
wealth and power and illustrious history that 
he deeply realised the responsibility as well 
as the honour of being its ruler and protector 
in the troublous times which had now fallen 
upon France. 

The King himself had ''droit de gite'' (right 
of entertainment) at Jumieges, and the royal 
apartment boasted a lit de parade with velvet 
curtains bordered with ermine, and the very 
washstand had a velvet petticoat and a silver 
ewer. 

The Abbot well remembered his sovereign's 
only visit to the Abbey, though he had re- 
alised little good from that royal procession, 
for the King was half -crazed and took no 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 323 

note of his surroundings. But the Dauphin 
Charles, who accompanied the party, though a 
silent lad, inspired the Abbot with hope. 

During a hunt in the forest, the prince's 
pony had gone lame, and as this occurred not 
far from the Manor of Mesnil recourse was had 
to its stables for a substitute. A mettlesome 
palfrey, the Lady Agnes' s own, was offered, 
but seeing how the creature, frightened by the 
unaccustomed confusion, bit and struggled 
with the grooms, the timid prince concluded 
that it was unbroken and dangerous, and 
feared to mount. Seeing this, the Lady Agnes, 
at that time a mere slip of a girl, sprang to 
the side of her pet and quieting it with 
caresses and sugar, curvetted twice around 
the haras. Prince Charles regarding her all the 
time with mingled shame and admiration. 

"You are surely not afraid to ride my 
palfrey now?" she said, as she dismounted 
before him. 

"Nay," he answered sullenly, "I am not 
afraid to do anything which a maid can do." 
But as he looked at her and saw that she was 
not holding him up to ridicule, his pique 
vanished, and he said more gallantly, "I 
mean, pretty damsel, that I can do anything 
if you will but show me the way." 



324 French Abbeys 

The Prince stopped at the manor to bid 
her farewell as the royal cortege returned to 
Rouen. 

"Sweet mistress," he said, "will you not 
leave this wild forest and dwell at Court?" 

But the fair Agnes shook her head: "The 
Court is more dangerous for maids than our 
forest for princes," she made answer modestly, 
and the Dauphin watched her yearningly as 
he rode away. 

"I shall come again, my Lord Abbot," he 
had said as he left Jumieges. "Keep my 
guest-room ready," and he had sung the old 
chanson about the sweetness of the air and 
the longing to return with which it inspired 
his heart, for no me'phitic smoke at that time 
tainted innocent Jumieges. 

Nicolas le Roux built many a hope for 
his Abbey on this favourable impression. 
"When the Prince is king he will be our 
powerful patron," he thought, and in his 
mind's eye the Abbot saw new and palatial 
buildings springing up around the antiquated 
structure. 

When the English overran the country he 
fortified and defended the monastery until, 
on the fall of Rouen, the terrible Duke of 
Bedford appeared before Jumieges with a 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 325 

division of the main army and summoned it 
to surrender. 

"I give myself for my Abbey," said le Roux, 
as he tendered his submission. 

"A worthy peace-offering," replied the 
duke smoothly, for he had his uses for the 
Abbot of Jumieges. "You have but to ac- 
knowledge, as all of your brother Abbots 
have done, the spiritual authority of His 
Grace the Cardinal Bishop of Winchester, 
and everything else shall remain as it has 
been." 

"Have all the Abbots of Normandy, then, 
submitted?" asked Nicolas. 

"Even to Abbot Jolivet of that strongest 
Abbey of all, the Mont Saint Michel." 

It was true; the cowardly Jolivet was at 
Rouen, where he had gone to surrender the 
keys of his fortress monastery; but in his 
absence his warlike flock repudiated his mis- 
sion and, resisting for eight years all at- 
tacks, kept the Abbey virgin in its loyalty to 
France. The monastery of Bee, which had 
garrisoned its donjon -keep with French sol- 
diers, also resisted, but had been put to flame 
and sword and its Abbot carried a prisoner 
to Rouen. The other Abbots had attempted 
no opposition, but looked each other in the 



326 French Abbeys 

face with no acute feeling of shame as they 
swore allegiance, for as yet they knew not 
the dirty work which would be demanded of 
them. 

There was a French ecclesiastic at Rouen, 
however, whom with one accord his comrades 
cordially despised. This was Pierre Cauchon, 
Bishop of Beauvais. 

He, while his city was still in the possession 
of the French, had turned traitor, and to save 
himself from the fury of his townspeople had 
run away to England. Here he had wormed 
himself into the good graces of the Bishop of 
Winchester, who had sent the self -exile to 
Rouen, promising that he should one day 
be its archbishop if he served England well. 

It was not until the capture of Joan of Arc 
that Winchester drew upon the promissory 
notes with which the Abbots had ransomed 
their Abbeys. Her capture alive was the 
best fortune which could have befallen the 
English. To her were due all the French vic- 
tories in the last campaign. It was she who 
had effected the coronation of Charles VII. 
at Rheims. The French believed in her 
divine mission, and she must not die imtil 
it was discredited. She must be proved an 
impostor. 



326 French Abbeys 

ame as they 
swore a they kne^ 

the dirt oe demand 

them 

T' r-lesiastic at Rouen, 

rd his comrades 
" ^Te Cauchon, 






le possession 

■ d to save 

iiy of his townspeople had 

t,i:.2jd. Here he had wormed 

grJg^^^f- the Bishop of 

■ ■(% Pevqiission^f Neiirdeini)j j 

^jroniismg tnat ne snotua one day 

chbishop if he served England well. 

- not until the capture of Joan of Arc 

n Chester drew upon the promissory 

■ch the Abbots had ransomed 

jDeys. Her capture alive was the 

"■^■e which cO''-'' '-"-we befallen the 

o her wert . the French vic- 

f last campaign. It was she who 

i the coronation of Charles VH. 

The ' -"''h believed in her 

iOn, ai: -nnst not die imtil 

redited. e proved an 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 327 

She had been captured at Compiegne in the 
diocese of Beauvais, and in the circumstance 
Winchester saw his opportunity. Joan should 
be tried by the traitor bishop, for Pierre 
Cauchon was his creature, body and soul. 

Cauchon placed her prosecution in the 
hands of the Grand Inquisitor of France, and 
made up his tribunal of judges from French 
prelates known to be favourable to the Eng- 
lish, and among these were the Abbots of 
eleven Norman Abbeys who had given their 
submission to the Bishop of Winchester. 

When Nicolas le Roux understood at what 
a price he had purchased the safety of 
Jumieges he was aghast and would have fled. 

"Be not daunted," said the monk Isam- 
bard, who had brought him the summons; 
"I am a Dominican, a servant of the Holy 
Office, and as such must play my part in 
this matter. Should not some honest men 
be employed in it? It may be that God 
has called us to see that justice is done." 

This excuse Abbot Nicolas gave to Agnes 
of Manoir Mesnil when he called upon her to 
explain his proposed journey. The girl be- 
lieved in his good faith. 

"You will save her," she exclaimed, "even 
as she has saved France! For indeed with 



328 French Abbeys 

the great victories of Orleans and Patay, and 
Charles crowned as king, its salvation is as- 
sured. Ah! where is Charles now? He, who 
boasted here that he could do anything which 
a maid could do, why has he not followed the 
example of this glorious maid?" 

"With your pardon, sweet mistress," cor- 
rected the Abbot, "the Dauphin said rather 
that he could do anything — if you would 
show him the way," 

"Nay," replied the Lady Agnes, "he hath 
better counsellors than I, and if he is so inert, 
so sunk in sloth that he will not heed the 
voice of his own conscience, neither would he 
listen to mine. It is for you, my Lord Abbot, 
to champion the champion of France, and to 
win the reward of a hero." 

Encouraged by the girl's faith, a noble im- 
pulse flared in the Abbot's heart, and at the 
first convocation of the tribunal he rose and 
impeached the authority of Pierre Cauchon 
to try the case. "This trial is not legal," he 
declared, "for the Bishop of Beauvais has 
acknowledged himself hostile to the prisoner, 
and is therefore no unbiassed judge. More- 
over, he cannot question her divine mis- 
sion, since that has been already established 
by his spiritual superior, the Archbishop of 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 329 

Rheims, from whom the See of Beauvais is 
holden." 

Cauchon was furious and arrested the dar- 
ing Abbot, who protested that he had no 
authority to do so as he was under no juris- 
diction but that of the Archbishop of Rouen. 

But the Duke of Bedford supported Cau- 
chon, and Nicolas le Roux had time in prison 
for reflection which cooled his ardour. Cau- 
chon was endeavouring to have him con- 
demned to be sewn in a sack and thrown into 
the Seine; but his brother Abbots bravely- 
demanded his release and the Inquisitor- 
general insisted that he should take his place 
upon the tribunal, sending him at the same 
time a confidential hint that his friends would 
not be able to save him a second time if he 
had not the sense to bridle his tongue. 

The trial lasted from the 21st of Febru- 
ary to the 30th of May, 1431. The court 
held forty sittings, but on none of these 
did Nicolas le Roux again attempt to take 
the part of the poor girl condemned from the 
outset. Bravely she struggled against the 
efforts to trap her in her unadvised state- 
ments, without counsel, without a single 
member in that tribunal who knew not that 
his life was at stake if he attempted to treat 



330 French Abbeys 

her with fairness. Isambard de la Pierre 
alone endeavoured to aid her, advising her 
by signs how to answer her cross-examiners; 
but, this being discovered, he was rudely ex- 
pelled from the court -room. This is not the 
place to follow the iniquities of that process. 
Every device that fiendish cruelty could im- 
agine was employed against the defenceless 
girl by the prosecution. 

At last the Abbots, troubled in conscience 
at the thought of condemning her to be burned 
as a witch, begged her to save her life by sign- 
ing a paper confessing that she might have 
been in error as to her visions. 

"I had rather sign than burn," she said 
with a shudder. 

This ill-considered mercy of her judges 
made her condemn herself in the eye of the 
public. She had been regarded heretofore 
as a heroine, and every means was now taken 
by Bedford to give what was called her re- 
cantation the utmost publicity. Two stands 
were erected in the cemetery of the Abbey 
of Saint Ouen in the centre of Rouen before 
the door of the Marmousets. On one sat the 
Bishop of Beauvais, with the Cardinal of 
Winchester and the court ; to the other Joan 
was conducted, and in the presence of the 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 331 

multitude signed — not the paper which had 
been read to her, but, as was afterwards 
proved, a formal abjuration of her preten- 
sions to her divine mission, and an acknow- 
ledgment of the crimes of which she was 
accused. This paper was read aloud to the 
audience, but Joan, worn out by her suffer- 
ings, neither understood nor heard. 

Having confessed, she could not be put to 
death, but, recovering from her weakness and 
being told what she had done, she bravely 
disavowed her abjuration, and two days later. 
May 30, 1 43 1, the heroic maid was led out 
through crowds of weeping people, whom 
ranks of English soldiers kept back, to her 
death in the market-place. 

One friend stood at her side at the scaf- 
fold's foot; it was the monk Isambard. No 
crucifix had been given her, and he rushed 
into a neighbouring church and brought one 
from the altar, holding it before her until her 
death, though Joan herself begged him to 
step back as the devouring flame shot up 
between them. Through a rift in that ter- 
rible curtain he heard her utter the name of 
Jesus and saw her head fall forward upon her 
breast. 

The Cardinal Bishop of Winchester wept, 



332 French Abbeys 

and so did others of her jiidges, crying, "Woe 
unto us, we have killed a saint!" And 
Nicolas le Roux, struck with unavailing re- 
morse, fled from the sight, beating his breast 
in his despair. 

He was rowed in his barge as swiftly as 
his oarsmen, assisted by the current, could 
convey him to his Abbey of Jumieges, pur- 
chased by his shameful forfeit. At the land- 
ing-place, awaiting news from Rouen, was a 
group of villagers, and among them the Lady 
Agnes on her white palfrey. She rode quickly 
to the Abbot, crying, "What tidings, my 
lord, of the Maid?" 

As she listened the blood left her face and 
surged to it again in indignation. "And you 
who call yourself a man suffered this? And 
the King himself, for whom Joan gained so 
many victories, lifted no hand for her rescue ! 
Then, since manhood exists no longer, France 
must be saved by its women." 

With that word of scorn she left him, nor 
did the Abbot see her again for many years. 
The manor-house at Mesnil-sous-Jumieges 
was deserted, and it was said that its mis- 
tress had gone to friends in Touraine. 

Meantime a strange transformation had 
befallen the hitherto indolent and apparently 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 333 

feeble-minded King of France. Under the 
influence, so it was rumoured, of a new mis- 
tress, his better nature had awakened and he 
had shown ambition, patriotism, and unsus- 
pected ability. Taking the field in person at 
the siege of Montereau, he fought in the 
trenches up to his middle in water, and was 
the first to mount the scaling-ladders and 
enter the town, sword in hand. 

Province after province was retaken from 
the English, and in November, 1437, he 
made his triumphal entry into Paris, and was 
hailed as Charles the Victorious. Last of all, 
Rouen surrendered to Dunois, and the Eng- 
lish were driven from Normandy. 

Charles's first concern after this was to ren- 
der tardy justice to the memory of the hero- 
ine to whom he and France owed so much'. 
Pope Calixtus III. gave his sanction to the 
"process of rehabilitation" which was begun 
at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Arch- 
bishop of Rheims presiding. But it was not 
enough that Joan should be proclaimed a 
martyr here ; the Court was transferred to the 
archiepiscopal palace of Rouen, and in the 
city which had put her to death the articles 
upon which sentence had been rendered 
twenty years previously were pronounced 



334 French Abbeys 

false and calumnious and the process null and 
of no effect. 

It was, moreover, ordained that a eulogy 
should be delivered in the cemetery of the 
Abbey of Saint Ouen at the door of the Mar- 
mousets, on the very spot where her act of 
abjuration had been so shamefully obtained, 
and that on this site and on that of her 
martyrdom two crosses should be erected in 
expiation of the crime and to perpetuate her 
memory. 

That this reparation was due not so much 
to Charles VII. as to the woman who wakened 
him to wholesome remorse for his neglect 
the burghers of Rouen understood, for they 
spread garlands before her as she rode in 
that expiatory procession, and Nicolas le 
Roux, the half -crazed Abbot of Jumieges, 
coming to his Abbey door to welcome his 
King who claimed again his right of shelter, 
started to recognise in this "Queen of the 
left hand" Agnes Sorel, the whilom Lady of 
the Manor of Mesnil. 

"I saved the Abbey for you, my liege," the 
Abbot had murraured. 

"But at what a price!" cried Agnes, and 
the glance of the Abbot fell. 

"Dinner is preparing," he muttered. "For- 




ABBEY CHURCH OF SAINT GUEN, ROUEN, 
By permission of Levy et Fils. 




L'ABBAYE AUX DAMES, CAEN. 



The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 335 

give me, my liege, that our dolt of a cook is 
burning the roast. He always bums it. The 
stench of scorching flesh pervades the entire 
Abbey. It is not a perfume for a king's 
nostrils. Have open the windows. Bid the 
altar boys bring the censers and sweeten the 
apartment." 

"I perceive naught but the pleasant scent 
of blossoming lilacs," said the King. 

The monks looked at one another signifi- 
cantly, but were silent until the Abbot had 
bustled away, when one of them took it upon 
himself to explain. 

"So please your royal Highness, there is no 
joint upon the spit, and the fires are not yet 
lighted upon the kitchen hearth. Our af- 
flicted Abbot hath been for twenty years like 
that. When the smoke of the pyre of Joan 
of Arc ascended, the wind drove it in his face, 
and it hath never left his nostrils." 

It never left them while he lived, which 
was but a short space longer, hounded to his 
death by the furies of remorse, who used as 
their scourge not the fearful sight which he 
had witnessed nor the heart-breaking cries to 
which he had listened, but a stranger instru- 
ment of torture — the memory of an odour. 

The work of Agnes Sorel was accomplished. 



33^ French Abbeys 

She also died the following year at her Manor 
of Mesnil-sous-Jumieges. Charles VII . placed 
her body in a magnificent tomb in the chapel 
of the Chateau of Loches, But she left her 
heart to the Abbey of Jumieges, and the in- 
scription upon the slab which covered it may 
be read to-day: 

"Cy gist la noble damoiselle Agnes Sourelle. 

"En son vivant dame de Beaulte, piteuse entre 
toutes gens, et qui largement donnait de ses biens aux 
eglises et aux pouvres, laquelle trespassa le neuvieme 
jour de fevrier I'an de grace 1449." 

As the man in black concluded his tale -we 
could not forbear a query. If the Abbot's 
punishment existed only in his imagination 
what, then, was this very real odour of burning 
flesh mingled with sulphur which at present 
offended our senses? 

"Ah! that," replied the stranger, spread- 
ing his hands, "our host and others interested 
in the fair fame of Jumieges will tell you is 
also a product of the imagination; but we 
know better. We know," he repeated, "that 
it is the smoke of the torment of the Abbot 
Nicolas le Roux, roasting in hell for ever and 
ever!" 




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CHAPTER XV 

ABBEY PILGRIMAGES 

Oh! those old Abbey gardens 

With their devices rich, 
Their fountains and green, solemn walls, 

And saints in many a niche. 
I would I could call back again 

Those gardens in their pride, 
And see, slow walking up and down, 

The Abbot dignified. 
And the fat monk with sleepy eyes, 

Half dozing in his cell; 
And him, the poor lay brother, 

That loved the flowers so well. 
Alas ! the Abbey lieth low ; 

The Abbot's tomb is bare. 
And he, the Abbey-gardener, 

Is all forgotten there. 

Mary Howitt. 

I 

A LITTLE TOUR IN NORMANDY 

POR those who would go on pilgrimage, 
^ either for the mere joy of wandering in 
pleasant places or for serious research, no 
more delightful itineraries could be planned 

3j7 



33^ French Abbeys 

than the exploration of the most typical and 
accessible of the French Abbeys. 

First of all the reverend brotherhood, step- 
ping from the mainland as though to meet 
and welcome the trans -Atlantic traveller, we 
must rank Mont Saint Michel. If one could 
see but this example he would still have a fair 
conception of the power of monasticism in 
mediaeval times. 

But pre-eminent though it stands, this 
Abbey is not the first which the tourist will 
find most convenient to visit. 

If he disembarks at Cherbourg it will be 
easy to stop for a day at Caen, that old Nor- 
man city so saturated with memories of 
William the Conqueror. Here he will find 
in excellent preservation the Abbaye aux 
Hommes and the Abbaye aux Dames, which 
William and Matilda built in penance for 
their irregular marriage. It was Lanfranc, 
afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, who 
persuaded the Pope to grant them an in- 
dulgence, who was first Abbot of the Abbaye 
aux Hommes, while their daughter, Cecile, 
became Abbess of the Abbaye aux Dames. 
Queen Matilda's tomb is in its chapel, and 
she left its tresor her crown and sceptre, 
the trappings of her saddle-horses, besides 



Abbey Pilgrimages 339 

many rich vestments and other objects of 
value. 

Some amusing old rites and customs sub- 
sisted here up to the eve of the Revolution. 
During the f§te of Sainte Trinite the Abbess 
governed the town and garrison, the general 
in command reporting to her for orders. On 
the day of the Holy Innocents, the Fete de la 
Petite Abbesse was celebrated, a merry holi- 
day, in which an Abbess of the day was chosen 
from among the novices, the real Abbess giv- 
ing up her cross to the new incumbent and 
submitting to her rule until midnight, when 
the festival ended in a dance in the convent 
park. 

We visited the Abbey one windy evening in 
early spring, and as we walked in the grounds 
were startled to see ghostly forms flitting be- 
tween the trees, joining hands and leaping 
wildly as in some frantic Druidical dance. 

"Can it be the festival of la Petite Ab- 
besse,'' we asked, "which we have unwit- 
tingly chanced upon ? ' ' 

But on nearer approach a very common- 
place explanation was given of the weird 
phenomenon. It was only the convent linen 
agitated by the night breeze, the contortions 
of many flapping sheets striving with their 



340 French Abbeys 

fastenings and thus grotesquely simulating 
the dance of the sportive novices. 

After Caen one pauses most naturally at 
Lisieux to enjoy the old timbered houses 
which lean toward one another like gossiping 
crones whispering their scandals across the 
narrow streets. Here, too, one must glance 
at the cathedral and not miss its beautiful 
Lady Chapel, the Chapelle Expiatoire of 
Pierre Cauchon, built in remorse for his 
crime in the prosecution of Joan of Arc. 
Between Lisieux and Rouen lies the famous 
Abbey of Bee, but its beautiful tower will 
scarce repay the ordinary traveller for the 
inconvenience of its railway connections. 
It is difficult to go wrong in Normandy, for 
the province is sown thick with noble cha- 
teaux and quaint old towns, while its billow- 
ing hills are covered with apple orchards 
indescribably beautiful in the springtime. 
But, with the exception of the excursion to 
Mont Saint Michel and a pause en route at 
Caen, our tourist who is at all limited in 
time may confine his first itinerary to a 
driving-trip in the neighbourhood of Rouen. 
For the principal Norman monasteries are 
most invitingly grouped around the ancient 
city, and its magnificent Abbey-church of 



iiulatin^^ 



-red houses 

-ve gossiping 

lals across 

16 must glujiLc 

;? its beaiit^fnl 



■oan 01 ^\ic 



n^i T? . . , ^ 'r-''^ the fatnou-- 

llie h^xcommunication of Robert the Pious 

From a painting by Jean Paul Laurens^ 

- ■ iler 101 

railway connection^ 

^-'le cha- 
v'hile it 

'1 ciiaru ■ 

uLu lii i.iif ^j_.;.t mgtime , 

:"^t^on of the excursion to 

limit t 
...onniic ^.erary 

■n thp '■ nf "R. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 341 

Saint Ouen makes an excellent centre and 
point of departure. Its slender columns 
shoot like lily -stalks from the pavement, 
framing one hundred and thirty -five glorious 
windows, set so close together that from 
within the walls seem built of resplendent 
gems like those of the heavenly city — "as it 
were transparent glass." 

The cloisters, meadows, gardens, and other 
dependencies of Saint Ouen originally ex- 
tended over a large portion of the present 
city. 

"When one thinks," says Quicherat, "that the vast 
edifice which we call to-day the hotel-de-ville, where 
the municipal service of more than one hundred 
thousand souls is installed, is only a fragment of the 
former Abbey, one comprehends what must in the 
days of real faith have been the grandeur and power 
of this celebrated house." 

So near to Rouen that it may be visited in 
an afternoon is the once wealthy Abbey of 
Saint Georges de Boscherville, founded by 
Raoul de Tancarville, chamberlain of William 
the Conqueror. Its power and rank were at 
all times disproportioned to its size, for it 
was one of the smallest of the Norman re- 
ligious comm-unities, never numbering more 



342 French Abbeys 

than ten brethren. But the Abbot was al- 
ways of noble birth, and took his seat at 
great conclaves with the Abbots who ruled a 
thousand monks. 

It has its romance, a tragedy of passion 
and jealousy and violent death. 

On the opposite side of the Seine are the 
ruins of the castle of Bardouville. Married 
to its savage lord was an unfortunate lady 
who had loved and been loved in vain by a 
certain knight. What parted them is of 
little moment . They remained ' ' falsely true , ' ' 
and the knight, to be near his lady, became the 
Abbot of Saint Georges de Boscherville. 

Each evening that the baron was absent 
the baroness signalled her too faithful lover 
by means of lights, and he crossed the river, 
swimming it, so the legend asserts, like a 
second Leander, until the rumour of the torch 
which flamed in his absence reached the sus- 
picious ears of the husband, and the gallant 
Abbot was slain in his lady's bower. 

The Abbey will afford a purpose for a de- 
lightful drive from Rouen through the noble 
forest of Roumare; but, except for the 
archaeologist, the drive will be found more en- 
joyable than the end in view, for the chapter 
house and church are all that are left of the 



Abbey Pilgrimages 343 

monastic buildings, the former ruinous and 
invaded by the cows of a neighbouring dairy- 
farm, and the decorations which graced the 
interior of the latter hidden under barbarous 
whitewash. 

A little farther to the west the Seine makes 
a great sweep to embrace the still stately 
ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges, which may 
be visited from Rouen by steam launch or 
by the circuitous railroad. 

En route from Jumieges to Saint Wandrille 
one should not fail to pause at Caudebec, 
famous for its high tides and its exquisite 
spire, and for the most comfortable hostelry 
in all this region. Saint Wandrille will tempt 
the artist to remaia an entire season and fill 
his portfolios, and the inn of Caudebec is near 
enough to make this possible. 

From Saint Wandrille the pilgrim should 
press on to Fecamp, whose old Abbey-church 
with its wonderful jube is quite eclipsed by the 
"fake" Abbey, which has proved so clever an 
advertisement of the liqueur Benedictine. The 
monks were expelled at the time of the Revo- 
lution, but their recipe, it is pretended, was 
handed down to his children by the former 
steward of the Abbey, and an immense fortune 
has been realised from its fabrication. An 



344 French Abbeys 

arausing scene is depicted in a stained-glass 
window of the mock Abbey. The founder of 
the distillery grasps the globe with one plump 
hand, while he extends the other for the sa- 
cred recipe which is given him by an angel! 

More or less authentic antiquities, said to 
have once graced the ancient Abbey, are dis- 
tributed throughout the theatrical building, 
which flaunts a chapter house and even a 
chapel; but the architect who created this 
phantasmagoria could hardly have imagined 
that the most naive could take his jest seri- 
ously and fancy that he is treading the halls 
of the veritable monastery. 

The legend which led to the founding of 
the Abbey of Fecamp affirms that Joseph of 
Arimathea finding, after assisting in the de- 
position from the cross, that his glove con- 
tained some drops of the blood of Christ, 
concealed it in a hollow in a fig-tree which grew 
in his garden at Sidon, In process of time 
the tree was cut down and with its hidden 
treasure cast into the sea. 

A holy hermit in Gaul saw this in a vision, 
and was bidden to resort to the seashore and 
to watch for the fig-tree which would be 
miraculously carried to Normandy. Here 
indeed it was washed ashore, and the place 




RUINS OF ABBEY OF VALMONT— INTERIOR. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 345 

where it was found was named Fici campus, 
the field of the fig-tree, and afterwards Fe- 
camp. The faithful still devoutly kneel be- 
fore the discoloured glove which is carefully 
guarded in a tabernacle of the old Abbey- 
church. I have other testimony to its credit, 
for at a curiosity-shop in the neighbourhood 
an antique garnet rosary was offered me, its 
silver crucifix opening by means of a tiny 
screw, a reliquary for a drop of the ''sang 
precietix,'' It was impossible to resist the 
legend as told me by the wily vender, and 
the rosary lies before me as I write. 

"A pretty story and a pretty bauble," 
commented my friend the chemist when I 
shov\^ed it to him, ' ' and yet I would not hang 
those garnets as an amulet about a baby's 
neck. The child might piit the little reliquary 
in its mouth. ' '— ' ' And what of that ? "— " Only 
that in the sixteenth century they had a 
passion for concealing poisons in odd places — 
in ' an earring, a fan mount, a filigree basket ' 
— and this pellet which I have jtist taken 
from the little cavity in the crucifix is — pure 
arsenic." 

In a lovely valley just outside the town of 
Fecamp are the ruins of the Abbey of Val- 
mont, founded by that d'Estouteville of whom 



346 French Abbeys 

Victor Hugo writes in Notre Dame de Paris. 
Of all the Abbeys which we sought in our pil- 
grimage, this was the only one which we 
found guarded by an inexorable dragon. 
True he belched no flame, but neither would 
he swallow a golden bribe. With deplorable 
fidelity to his master's orders, he replied with 
monotonous reiteration, ' ' I am desolated not 
to oblige madame, but what can I do? On 
ne visite pas.'' 

Instantly the reputed glories, treasures of 
Valmont, its carvings by Germain Pilon, and 
the tombs of its Abbots, took on an over- 
weening importance, and all the privileges 
which we had hitherto enjoyed through the 
uniform courtesy and hospitality of other 
strangers were as nothing to this single 
refusal. 

Between Rouen and Paris, if one cares 
sufficiently for Richard Coeur de Lion to visit 
his castle of Gaillard, one may pause first at 
Pont de I'Arche for the drive to his Abbey of 
Bonport, which he founded in 1190. The 
refectory still exists, but the carved Choir- 
stalls and beautiful glass have been removed 
to the parish church of Pont de I'Arche. 

There are remains of many other interesting 
Abbeys in Normandy, but none which will so 



Abbey Pilgrimages 347 

well repay a visit as the group already 
mentioned. 

The monastery of La Trappe recalls a 
romance unparalleled in fiction, but at the 
time of its founding this Abbey sought for the 
most inaccessible spot in southern Normandy. 
Such it remains to-day, for the railroads 
avoid its solitude and few admirers of the 
Abbe de Ranee will brave the inconveniences 
of the journey to discover the austere retreat 
rendered famous by his long penance. An- 
other building as intimately connected with 
his tragic history attracts the attention of 
every traveller who approaches Loches from 
the city of Tours, and stands as a significant 
illustration to the pitiable story. 

II 

THE STRANGE STORY OF THE ABBE DE RANGE 

Tout Chartreux est un volcan eteint 

GUADET. 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

Lowell. 

Sinister and formidable even in its ruin 
the donjon keep of Montbazon is pointed out 



348 French Abbeys 

as cne of the earhest feudal castles of Touraine, 
built by Foulques Nerra to protect his terri- 
tory from the Counts of Blois. 

On the summit of the ancient tower there 
has been erected a colossal image of the Vir- 
gin, for it is now a shrine of pilgrimage; and 
humble penitents kneel amid the ruins be- 
seeching Our Lady of Pity to save their sons 
from such a temptress, and their daughters 
from the guilt and the fate of the wicked 
Duchess of Montbazon. It was close at 
hand in her favourite bower, the dainty 
manor-house of Couzieres, that she met and 
loved the Abbe de Ranee and paid the penalty 
of her guilt. 

The Abbe possessed the neighbouring seig- 
nory of Veretz, and had built himself a her- 
mitage in the great game -abounding forest. 
Let no one, deceived by the word, picture a 
rocky cell beside a rill of clear -flowing water, 
for the "hermitage" was a chdteau de 
chasse, with stables and kennels, and later 
Ranee sold the estate for the equivalent of a 
hundred thousand dollars. He had inherited 
it from his mother, his clerical duties at the 
Chateau of Blois were merely nominal, and 
he spent much of his time in hunting at 
Veretz. 




o -n 

2 U-, 





e^H, 



Abbey Pilgrimages 349 

Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Ranee was 
such a man at this time as Browning describes 
in Caponsacchi: 

"A courtly, spiritual cupid, 
And fit companion for the like of you — - 
You gay Abati with the well-turned legs 
And rose i' the hat-rim, canon's cross at neck, 
And silk-mask in the pocket of the gown." 

And yet his was not a gross nature. A 
precocious scholar, he published at twelve a 
translation of the odes of Anacreon, and in 
taking his degrees excelled his classmate 
Bossuet. Named for Richeheu, it was ex- 
pected that his godfather's influence would 
be enlisted in his behalf, but the cardinal died 
and he had not been appointed to the bishop- 
ric, which he expected. 

So Ranee, with no great career to tempt 
his powers, lived a life of idle elegance and 
refinement until he met the Duchesse de 
Montbazon. 

Fifty-two years younger than her husband, 
mad for admiration and an adept in the arts 
of acquiring it, she seemed to the young man 
the embodiment of all feminine perfection. 
She found his adoration amusing in that un- 
eventful chateau life, for she was a woman 



350 French Abbeys 

who could not forbear from ruining any man 
of attractive personality who came within her 
power. But the death of her husband, Duke 
Hercules de Montbazon, was to give her a 
wider field, and the duchess at once estab- 
lished herself at Paris, creating continual 
scandals at the very formal Court, where she 
took an insane delight in violating etiquette. 
The Cardinal de Retz wrote of her : ' ' Madame 
de Montbazon was very beautiful, but modesty 
was wanting to her attractions. I never saw 
any one, even in vice, who had preserved so 
little respect for virtue." Such audacity was 
at least piquant, and very soon she had more 
lovers and was involved in more mischief 
than any other woman in Paris. 

Into this dissolute, reckless life the Abbe de 
Ranee followed the duchess. His father had 
died and his revenues, greatly increased, en- 
abled him to cut a figure as a man of fashion. 
He maintained a train of servants and eight 
coach horses. While in ecclesiastical society 
he dressed in black velvet, at the soirees of 
the duchess he appeared in heliotrope or 
violet brocade, set off with costly laces and 
great emeralds. 

The Abbe had a rival in the Duke of Beau- 
fort, one of the leaders of the Fronde, and it 



Abbey Pilgrimages 35 1 

was to advance his interests that the Duch- 
ess of Montbazon threw herself into that 
conspiracy. 

Vain, shallow, and selfish, he had still the 
make-up of a stage hero, with the art of in- 
gratiating himself with the populace and 
the perception to recognise their power. He 
was called le Roi des Halles (King of the 
Markets), and the terrible fishwives whose 
descendants were to drag Louis XVI. and 
Marie Antoinette from Versailles, worshipped 
him as the champion of their interests because 
he resided in their quarter and harangued 
them in their argot. But Mazarin's spies 
kept him informed of Beaufort's incendiary 
speeches and of the plots at the salons of 
Madame de Montbazon, and using as a pre- 
text a notorious duel which that agitating 
lady had incited, he banished her to her 
estates in Touraine. 

The Duke of Beaufort was too great a 
favourite with the people to be dealt with 
openly, and too dangerous and treacherous 
a man to be permitted to remain in France. 
The cardinal cleverly gave him an appoint- 
ment which was virtual banishment and 
possible condemnation to death, making him 
admiral of the French fleet which sailed in 



352 French Abbeys 

1669 with seven thousand troops for the re- 
Hef of the Venetians beseiged in Candia by 
the Turks. The night of the landing, when 
the French forces attempted to cut their 
way through the infidels, Beaiifort disap- 
peared in the melee, probably one of the un- 
numbered dead left upon the field by that 
frightful slaughter. But the women of the 
halles could never be persuaded that their 
leader was dead. For years they had masses 
said — ^not for the repose of his soul, but for 
his return, believing that he had been spirited 
away from the field by the agents of Mazarin.^ 

The affection of the Duchess of Montbazon 
was not so constant as that of the ignorant 
fishwives. Even before the Duke of Beau- 
fort sailed he was dead to her and from the 
list of her lovers she elected that the Abbe 
de Ranee should supply his place. He had 
loved her without hope in her prosperity and 
would not desert her now. 

The management of his estate of Veretz 
gave the excuse for long rides and for secret 
interviews, until swift and terrible retribu- 
tion fell upon them from the hand of God. 

^ Some authorities take this view and maintain that he 
was confined in the fortress of Pignerol, being none other than 
the prisoner known as the Man in the Iron Mask. 



IS 



Abbey Pilgrimages 353 

The Abbe had come one day to his tryst at 
the manor, and had tripped jauntily up the 
secret staircase to his lady's boudoir. She 
was not there, but a great silver chafing-dish, 
from which she had often regaled him with 
some dainty prepared by her own fair hands, 
stood as though waiting for him upon the 
table. He raised the cover, and to his horror 
was confronted by the dissevered head of his 
mistress, the fair locks sodden with blood, 
forming a gory frame for features distorted 
by the death-agony. Ranee's reason forsook 
him at the fearful sight. Grasping the dish 
he fled demented with it into the forest, and 
wandered, how long and where he never knew. 

It seemed to him that he had ventured into 
hell in search of his murdered love and was 
fleeing through floods of flame with her corpse 
tightly clasped against his heart, and that 
ghastly face close to his own. 

When at last he came to himself he was in 
the ruined donjon of Montbazon. Was it all 
a hideous dream and would he hear her ring- 
ing laugh in a moment ? He raised his hands 
to his head and saw that his lace ruffles were 
dabbled with dark spots, and at the same time 
an odd metallic sound, like the tinkling of a 
tiny bell sounded behind him. The great 



354 French Abbeys 

tower was roofless, an ivy -lined wall in which 
rooks built their nests. They were circling 
and cawing as though in response to the call 
of that weird bell, and turning he saw upon a 
heap of debris the silver vessel, against whose 
cover an enormous raven was striking his 
hard beak. Driving away the bird, but un- 
able to look again upon that terrible face, he 
buried the dish and its contents beneath a pile 
of stones, and kneeling in the solitude repeated 
over it the service for the dead. 

From that day the Abbe Ranee was a 
changed man. It was not enough to devote 
himself henceforth to the duties of his sacred 
calling. Conscience made terrible reclama- 
tions, and as his sin had been great so he set 
himself no ordinary, easy penance. 

Among his many benefices he possessed the 
charge of the monastery of La Trappe in Nor- 
mandy. In a bleak situation, without en- 
dowment, the monks had deserted its cloisters ; 
only seven remained in the ruinous building, 
and these were unworthy of their order, 
poaching the fallow deer, feasting on fast 
days, drinking and gaming in the refectory, 
and sharing their evil pleasures with aban- 
doned women, as though the devil himself 
were their prior. Ranee formed the design 



Abbey Pilgrimages 355 

of reforming the entire order of the Citeaux, 
and made a journey to Rome to obtain the 
Pope's sanction; but the pontiff was not in 
sympathy with this new Savonarola and gave 
him no authority beyond his own community of 
La Trappe. Unshaken in his determination, he 
returned to France and sold his possessions, en- 
dowing two hospitals in Paris. He then retired 
to the poverty and solitude of his monastery, 
reviving the strict rule of Saint Bernard with 
long vigils, rigorous fasts, exhausting labour, 
flagellation, eternal silence, and the daily 
digging of his grave with his own hands. For 
thirty-seven years he endured this living 
death, and other repentant sinners flocked to 
share his self-cruciflxion, so that whereas he 
had found but seven reprobates in the convent, 
he left in it at his death one hundred and 
ninety -seven true penitents. It was remorse 
and the fear of judgment to come which had 
driven them from the world and was ever 
present with their founder as he knelt in his 
cell before a ghastly skull, said to be that of 
the woman whom he had loved, for the peace 
of whose soul he prayed continually, and 
whose evil name, in spite of his life of ex- 
piation, will ever be linked with his own. 
(See Note A.) 



35^ French Abbeys 

The Abbe's romance was well known and 
had much to do with giving La Trappe its 
vogue, but in the following century, as the 
sentimental interest in the Abbey increased, 
the desire of actually following Ranee's ex- 
ample diminished. 

When Dor at wrote his poem of La Trappe, 
based on the romantic history of the Comte 
de Comminges, as related by Madame de 
Tencin, it was as a protest against the rigours 
of the old faith, and though an anti-climax 
to the tragedy of de Ranee, the trifle is 
significant of the current of opinion. The 
plot of the poem is briefly as follows : 

The Comte de Comminges loves Adelaide, 
daughter of the Marquis de Lussan, who 
returns his affection, but through misun- 
derstanding is married to the Marquis de 
Benavides. 

Comminges in despair becomes a monk of 
La Trappe. 

Adelaide learning this, not with any in- 
tention of intrigue but simply to be near her 
beloved, disguises herself as a man, and also 
taking the vows, becomes an inmate of the 
same monastery. Her identity is unknown 
even to her lover, who remarks only (so he is 
supposed to write his mother) the sympathy 




u W 



t s 




Abbey Pilgrimages 357 

written in the face of a young novice by whom 
he is continually followed. 

One day, while digging his own grave, the 
count pauses and traces in the sand with his 
spade the name of Adelaide. 

He hears sobs and at last recognises his 
lady. 

After this there is nothing in honour for the 
lovelorn count to do but to die, a perform- 
ance which he accomplishes with despatch 
and due deference to dramatic effect. 

The poem is thoroughly artificial in its 
sentimentality. It is difficult to believe that 
tears were shed on the following lines: 

" Au bord d'un lac tranquille 
Je travaillois un soir a mon dernier asyle, 
Je creusois mon cercueil, en moi meme absorbe 
Je restais quelque terns sur ma beche courbe, 
Ma main, dans ce moment, incertaine timide, 
Sur le sable imprima le nom d' Adelaide." 

The lackadaisical pose of the count in 
Eisen's dainty engraving, his petticoats draped 
like a ballet-dancer's, provokes in our day 
amusement rather than sympathy. 

We have drifted still further down the 
stream, and the conclusion of the poem seems 
to us trite and banal, but we forget that at 
the time it may have taken some courage to 



35^ French Abbeys 

have enunciated it in the face of the example 
and doctrine of La Trappe: 

"Ce Dieu que Ton peint de ses foudres arme 
Est un Dieu bienfaisant, qui veut etre aime 
Deja s'ouvre a tes yeux retemite brillante, 
Adore et sers un Dieu qui le rend ton Amant." 



Ill 

IN EASTERN FRANCE 

This fortification 
Grew from the ruins of an ancient Abbey. 

I do love these ancient ruins. 
We never tread upon them but we set 
Our foot upon some reverend history ; 
And, questionless, here in this open court 
Which now lies naked to the injuries 
Of stormy weather, some men lie interred, 
Loved the Church so well, and gave so largely to it, 
They thought it should have canopied their bones 
Till doom's day; but all things have their end; 
Churches and Abbeys, which have diseases like to 

men, 
Must have like death that we have. 

John Webster in The Duchess of Malfi. 

The httle tour in Normandy which we 
have outhned needs no previous preparation 
of deep scholastic research to make it of 



Abbey Pilgrimages 359 

interest to the tourist. The charm of the 
mere picturesque aspect of the ruins of 
Jumieges and Saint Wandrille will win any 
heart, however indifferent. The beauty of 
Saint Ouen and the grandeur of Mont Saint 
Michel are equally impressive, but a pilgrim- 
age in the east of France is more particularly 
recommended to those who know beforehand 
what they seek and where to find their 
peculiar predilection, for in the feast which 
is spread from Lorraine to the Mediterranean 
there are delicacies to suit every taste. 

The wild beauty of the Desert of La Grande 
Chartreuse and the loveliness of the Abbey 
of Haut combe on the blue lake of Le Bourget 
in Savoy, the savage grandeur of La Chaise 
Dieu, and the spectacular picturesqueness of 
Le Puy in Auvergne, will best please the 
artist, while the architect will find more 
satisfying the exquisite Gothic church of 
Brou and the Romanesque buildings of the 
Rhone Valley, especially in the neighbour- 
hood of Avignon and Aries. The historical 
student will delight in less pictorial scenes, 
each crumbling wall of Languedoc and Bur- 
gundy affording illustration to many a fa- 
miliar page and stimulating both memory 
and imagination. 



360 French Abbeys 

The Hmitations of the present volume will 
not permit of even a cursory survey of the 
field: its aim is but to suggest more serious 
study and thorough exploration. 

Among the hundreds of statues of the 
Abbey of Hautecombe, where sleep the princes 
and princesses of Savoy, the sculptured faces 
of Yolande, of Aloise, of Sibylle, and of 
Bonne will set the poet's fancy dreaming "in 
praise of ladies dead." 

The monks who drop upon their knees be- 
side these marble tombs, protected by in- 
ternational treaty even at this writing (1905) 
in their vows of perpetual prayer for the souls 
of the departed, are among the very few 
whom he will find in their old accustomed 
haunts. 

The ancient fortified Abbey of "The Seat 
of God ' ' will justify its name from its mount- 
ain throne, at whose foot the humbler edifices 
of the little town seem to kneel in homage. 
Its donjon-keep proclaims the struggles of 
its Abbots with the rapacious neighbouring 
seigneurs, and, like many an old commandery 
of the religious military orders, still seems to 
chant its " Benedictus D.eus meus qui docet 
manas meas ad prcelium et digitos meos ad 
helium.'" 



Abbey Pilgrimages 361 

This Abbey of La Chaise Dieu was prison 
as well as fortress ; its aspect of bleak austerity 
and loneliness well explains the feeling of its 
Commendatory Abbot, Cardinal de Rohan, 
prince and peer of the realm, who is reported 
to have said scornfully: "I have, as you say, 
an old Abbey somewhere in the mountains of 
Auvergne, just where, I do not quite know; I 
do know, however, that it possesses an entire 
county which yields me a very fair income, 
and while there are pretty women at Court 
be assured that this is all I ask of it." 

This assertion is supposed to have been 
made a few months before the scandal of the 
diamond necklace flamed forth, when the 
dissolute prelate, who dared to insult Marie 
Antoinette, was banished to La Chaise Dieu 
as to perpetual imprisonment. 

The city of Avignon, with its papal palace, 
which Froissart called la plus forte et la plus 
belle mats on en France, will furnish another 
mine of treasure in its souvenirs of the French 
pontiffs. Vaucluse, with Petrarch and Laura, 
is close at hand, while across the river, 
partly spanned by the broken bridge, is the 
ancient Chartreuse, an Abbey invaded by a 
colony of gypsies, whose donkeys are stabled 
in the chapel. 



3^2 French Abbeys 

The Bridge of Saint Nicolas suggests an 
entire chapter on the Freres Pontifes (Pont 
if ex, bridge-builder), who banded themselves 
together "to build churches and hospices 
along the routes, to render roads practicable, 
and particularly to construct bridges over 
rivers." This confrerie was bound by the 
vow of obedience, in that they must assemble 
when called, and by poverty, in receiving no 
recompense for their labours, but they were 
allowed to marry and to return to their 
homes when their services were not required. 
They spread all over Europe, their special aim 
being to make easy the pilgrimage to the 
Holy Land. Their most celebrated bridge 
over the Rhone, the Pont Saint Esprit, was 
finished in 1307, and still exists. It is eight 
hundred metres in length, with twenty great 
arches, each twenty metres in span. There 
are bastides at each end, and anciently there 
were two towers in the middle, in one of 
which was placed .an altar to Saint Nicolas, 
the patron of all ferries and bridges. These 
towers were removed in 1850, as the naviga- 
tion of the river demanded that the two 
central arches should be replaced by a great 
iron one. The hospice built here for pilgrims 
became the headquarters of the Order, a 



Abbey Pilgrimages 363 

Cite hospitaliere , with a special quarter quaran- 
tined for the pest, and an ateher for instruction 
in the mechanic arts. 

The devout Cathohc will find in the south 
of France shrines of pilgrimage hallowed by 
association with the greatest saints of the 
calendar. Not alone French saints, such as 
Bruno, who founded La Grande Chartreuse 
in 1084, and Bernard of Clairvaux, but others 
whom we are accustomed to associate with 
Italy,— Saint Francis of Assisi, whose foot- 
steps we have traced in the neighbourhood of 
Aries ; Saint Dominic, * ' Defender of the Faith, ' ' 
whose mistaken zeal led the crusade against 
the Albigenses, but is lovingly remembered in 
Toulouse as having there received the vision 
of the Virgin that inspired the institution of 
the rosary, which has guided the devotions of 
millions of fervent souls. 

Saint Anthony is claimed at picturesque 
Le Puy, at the Abbey of Fontefroide (be- 
loved by Viollet le Due) near Narbonne, and 
in the neighbourhood of Limoges. Here, as 
in Portugal, he provides good husbands for 
maidens who on his fete place lighted candles 
at his shrine, and those destined to an early 
grave he betroths to himself, appearing to 
them in person. 



3^4 French Abbeys 

Indeed France is as jealous of Italy as is 
the good saint's native country, Portugal, 
where among many souvenirs of his youth 
and early manhood the following curious 
certificate of his military service is treasured: 

"I attest and certify" — (wrote Don Hercules An- 
tonio Charles Luiz Joseph Maria de Albuquerque 
Aranjo de Magalhaens Homen, nobleman, knight, 
etc., etc.) — "that the Lord Saint Antonio, otherwise 
the great Saint Antonio of Lisbon (commonly and 
falsely called of Padua) has been enlisted in this regi- 
ment since the 24* of January, 1268. The said 
Saint Antonio gave for his caution and surety the 
Queen of Angels, who became answerable that he 
would not desert his colours, but behave always like 
a good soldier. ... 

"I do further certify that there is no record of bad 
behaviour committed by him nor of his having ever 
been flogged or in any way punished while a private 
in his regiment, and that in every respect he has 
always behaved like a gentleman, and on all the 
above mentioned accounts I hold him most deserving 
of the rank of major to our regiment. In testimony 
whereof I have hereto signed my name this 25th day 
of March of the year of our Lord 1277. 

"Magalhaens Homen." 

If our pilgrim is a historian and would 
touch the very foundation of the Abbey in- 
stitution, he must go to Italy, for it was 



Abbey Pilgrimages 365 

Saint Benedict who in the year 528 organised 
the hermit monks into a convent (corpora- 
tion) on Mont Cassin, thus creating the Order 
of the Benedictines, who were to evangehse 
and educate Europe. 

So early as 543, however, Saint Benedict's 
disciple, Saint Maure, with four companions, 
introduced the rule into France, founding the 
Abbey of Saint Maure stir Loire, near the 
city of Tours. 

The Comte de Montalembert, in his Monks 
of the West, shows us the wonderful work of 
monasticism up to the birth of Bernard (1091). 
The eleventh century was one of miracle, 
and it is here that the author has chosen to 
b3gin her study of the Abbeys. For the year 
1000 A.D. had been anticipated as the mil- 
lenium, the end of the world, and the Dies 
IrcB, written by a pious monk, represented its 
expectation. 

Robert the Pious was King of France and 
his conscience was not at peace, for he had 
wedded in defiance of the Church. In terror 
of its excommunication he gave up his wife 
and as Michelet wrote, his obedience seemed 
to the nation to have disarmed the divine 
anger and to have brought in the peace of 
God. When the eleventh century dawned 



366 French Abbeys 

and the heavens and earth shrivelled not 
in flame, the nation as well as the monarch 
seemed, in thankftdness. to have entered upon 
a new life. From this point it is to the 
dominant Abbey of Cltmy that we must look 
for the histon* of the first centuiy- of this 
great revival. Other Abbeys may be dis- 
missed with a word, or altogether ignored, 
but it is impossible to understand the insti- 
tution of monasticism in France without a 
knowledge of the history of the great hou^e 
which was its ver\' heart. 

IV 

THE ABBEY OF CLUNY 

O happy harbotir of God's saints, 

O sweet and pleasant soil. 
In thee no sorrow may be fotind. 

Xo grief, no care, no toil. 

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 

Continually are green ; . 
There grow such sweet and pleasant plants 

As nowhere else are seen. 

Bernard oj Cluxy. 

Phenomenal indeed was the orowth of this 
wonderful Abbey from the year 909. when 
the Duke of Aqtiitaine founded it by donating 



Abbey Pilgrimages 367 

the fief of Cluny to twelve Benedictine monks. 
His will, with its naive statements of his 
motives in making the gift, is a curious docu- 
ment, illustrative of the temper of mind of the 
time. 

"I, William, Count and Duke, and Ingelberge my 
wife, have thought it well to dispose for the profit of 
my soul of some of my riches. I can not do better 
in this regard than to follow the precept of our Lord 
and make to myself friends among the poor, by pro- 
longing perpetually my benefits to monks whom I 
shall nourish, hoping that if I do not myself suffi- 
ciently despise the things of this world, I may still 
receive the recompense of the just, since the monks 
contemners of the world shall receive of my liberality. 

"This is why I give and bequeath to the holy 
apostles Peter and Paul all that I possess at Cluny — 
to wit, the chapel, the farms, slaves of both sexes, 
vineyards, fields, forests, waters, and mills without 
reserve. 

"I give these things to the said apostles, I, William, 
and my wife Ingelberge, for the safety of our souls and 
those of all our relatives. And finally as we are united 
to all Christians by the same faith, this donation is 
made for all the orthodox of the past, present, and 
future. 

"We order that our donation shall serve to furnish 
a refuge to the poor, and that the monks and all 
things mentioned herein be under the domination of 
the Abbot Bernon. But after his death that the 
monks have the right to elect the master of their order. 



368 French Abbeys 

"That they pay annually for five years to Rome 
ten golden sous for the lighting of the Church of the 
Apostles and placing themselves thus under the pro- 
tection of the said apostles, and having for their de- 
fender the Pontiff of Rome, they build themselves a 
monastery at Cluny in the measure of their power 
and knowledge. 

"We will also that Cluny shall be open each day 
by works of mercy to the poor, to strangers, and to 
pilgrims. 

"It pleases us to ordain that from this day the 
monks of Clun}^ are fully affranchised from our power 
and that of our family, and shall never be subject 
either to the royal power, or to the yoke of any ter- 
restrial sovereignty. By God and all the saints and 
under menace of the last judgment I forbid all secular 
princes and the Pontiff of the Roman Church him- 
self to invade the possessions of the servitors of God ; 
and I conjure you, O holy apostles Peter and Paul, 
and thou pontiff of the apostolic see, to with old from 
the communion of the Church and from the life ever- 
lasting all violators of my evident intention. Be de- 
fenders of Cluny, and if any one, my relative or a 
stranger, by any ruse attempt to render void this 
testament, may God remove him from the living on 
earth, and his name from the book of life. Let him 
become the companion of Judas in the torments of 
damnation. That he be compelled, moreover, by 
earthly law to pay an hundred pounds of gold to the 
monks whom he strives to attack. And that this testa- 
ament remain forever inviolable in all its stipulations. 

"Done publicly in the city of Bourges, etc." 



Abbey Pilgrimages 369 

In scarce a century from its establishment, 
the domination of Cluny extended over three 
hundred and forty religious houses, and the 
Abbot was a temporal prince. 

Great factories grouped themselves around 
the monastery : bakers, horticulturists, weav- 
ers, shoe -makers, carpenters, masons, black- 
smiths and cabinet-makers perfected their 
crafts. 

From 1089 to 1131 the artisan monks built 
their famous church, the largest in Christen- 
dom with the exception of Saint Peter's at 
Rome.' and at this period sent out her build- 
ing monks to erect other Abbeys in the style 
of the maison-mere, not in France alone, but 
to England, to Italy, and to Germany as 
well. 

The style in which they builded — the 
Burgundian Romanesque — ^remained pre-emi- 
nent in monastic architecture long after the 
Gothic had superseded it in the great cathe- 
drals. It was derived from the buildings 
erected in the Rhone Valley by the Romans 
and can be studied side by side with the 
original models. The barrel vault and low, 
round arches, supported by columns which 

I The church was 171 metres in length. Saint Peter's is 

183 metres, Saint Paul's in London only 166. 
24 



37° French Abbeys 

appeared to have been stunted and some- 
times contorted by the weight of the super- 
structure, expressed everlasting durabihty, a 
relentless severity, and inexorable gloom, 
which comported well with monastic ideas. 
The domination of the hierarchy was as much 
a legacy from Roman masterfulness as the 
architecture of the basilica. Something of 
the Christian character must, however, be 
grafted on the classical structure, and over 
the main doorway there was always a rudely 
carven representation of the last Judgment. 
The most terrible of all we found at the Abbey 
church of Moissac, where the imagination of 
the sculptor was allowed the utmost licence 
in depicting the tortures of the damned. 

The gargoyles which from under the eaves 
spouted water upon unwary passers it was 
claimed represented evil spirits driven from 
the sacred edifice, but the devils reappeared 
again in the beautiful cloister and took pos- 
session of the capitals of the columns. Saint 
Bernard alone thought of satirising these 
grotesques : 

"What," he asks, "do these ridiculous monstrosi- 
ties accomplish for the brothers reading in the cloister ? 
Why are the filthy apes there ? and the savage lions ? 
Why the monstrous centaurs, and the half-human 




CLOISTER OF THE ABBEY OF FONTEFROIDE. 
By permission of Paul Robert. 




CLOISTER OF THE ABBEY OF MOISSAC. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 371 

figures? You may see there one body under many 
heads, or again many bodies with one head. On one 
side is shown the tail of a serpent on a quadruped; 
on the other a quadruped's head on a fish. There is 
a beast like a horse in the fore part and a goat behind ; 
here is a homed animal with the hinder part of a 
horse. 

" For God's sake, even if one is not ashamed of such 
absurdities, why is he not distressed at the cost of 
them?" 

The cost in no way troubled the Cluniac 
architects, but they had another cause for 
alarm. At the very moment of their highest 
success another style, the ogival or Gothic, 
was perfected in central France and was 
adopted for the great cathedrals. 

It was impossible that the superior advan- 
tages of the rival system should not in time 
be recognised even at Cluny itself, and so at 
last the pointed arch crept into her chapels 
and will be found side by side with her own 
distinctive architecture. 

It is for these reasons that this Abbey is the 
most interesting in all France to the architect. 

And yet it is not so much what the visitor 
can actually see at Cluny as what one can 
read into its fast - disappearing fragments 
which is so significant. A sordid provincial 



372 French Abbeys 

town has been allowed to invade the dead 
monastery, — to cut streets through its church 
and to burrow with shops many of its noble 
buildings, as a foul river might have eaten 
them away or choked them with slime. From 
the very heart of the Abbey, however, the ig- 
noble inundation has been sluiced and dyked 
as from an island rescued from the torrent, 
and kept sacred to the traditions of the past. 

We arrived from Macon on a market-day; 
every courtyard was filled with the carts of 
peasants, and down the narrow streets came 
charging herds of the great tawny and white 
cattle for which the Charollais is famous. 
Dashing into doorways we escaped the hoofs 
and horns of the stampede, but not from 
the clamour of their blue-bloused masters, who 
filled the only inn to suffocation and wrangled 
over their strong Burgundy. To what God- 
forsaken spot have we come? was our first 
query, but it needed only a glance at the 
Chapel of Jean de Bourbon and the Tour 
de I'Eau Benite to change the scoffers to 
devotees. 

Forsaken of God indeed must their Abbey 
have seemed to the dazed, monks who saw 
the wonderful church demolished when its 
mere debris fills the architect's heart with 



Abbey Pilgrimages 373 

amazement. Two small palaces also remain 
which are gems in their way, the logis ab- 
hatiales of Jean de Bourbon and Jacques d' 
Amboise, who built the Cluny Palace in Paris 
as the city residence of the Abbots of Cluny. 
One other palace, called that of the Pope 
Gerlase, a part only of the suite of buildings 
kept as guest-chambers, exists in a mutilated 
and badly restored condition. There was 
need for this extensive provision for hos- 
pitality, for: 

"In 1245," says the ancient chronicle, "the Pope 
[Innocent IV.], with all his Court, the Bishop of Senlis 
and his household; the Bishop of Evreux with his 
retinue; our sovereign lord the King of France 
[Saint Louis], with his mother, his brother, his sister, 
and all their following; the Emperor of Constantin- 
ople and his Court; the son of the King of Aragon 
with his suite ; the son of the King of Castile with his ; 
and many other knights and clergy were entertained 
at the same time within the monastery. 

' ' And in spite of this great number of guests not 
one of its three hundred monks was displaced from 
his dormitory, refectory, infirmary, or chapter house, 
or his cuisine in any way changed." 

When Napoleon passed through Burgundy 
on his way to receive at Milan the iron crown, 
he was met at Macon by a deputation of the 



374 French Abbeys 

municipality of Cluny, who begged him to 
honour their town by a visit. He is said to 
have replied brusquely: "You have allowed 
your magnificent church to be sold and de- 
stroyed. You are a horde of Vandals, and 
I shall never visit Cluny." 

A careful examination of the facts of his- 
tory shows that the Emperor grievously 
wronged the town. It was against the pro- 
test of the municipality that the Abbey was 
sold by the National Government to some 
merchants of Macon. Liberty was given to 
the purchasers to do what they chose with 
their property, and the beautiful vaults and 
arches reared with such munificence and de- 
votion were blown up with gunpowder and the 
materials sold for the basest uses. Seventy- 
five blasts were necessary to overthrow the 
Tour des Bisans, the mate of the Holy Water 
Tower still standing, and nine days of mining 
before the facade fell. 

The town still persisted in its attempt to 
save what it could. It possessed meadows 
in the suburbs which, with its markets, it 
exchanged in 1801 for a part of the Abbey. 

It was not until 1865 that the Minister of 
Public Instruction decided to create a new 
department, that of Industrial Art, when the 



Abbey Pilgrimages 375 

Municipal Council of Cluny immediately of- 
fered the Government the Abbey buildings 
and grounds for its new school. No use more 
in harmony with its original purpose could 
have been made of the Abbey which so greatly 
developed the building arts. To-day the 
collections and ateliers of the Ecole Nationale 
des Arts et des Metiers takes the place of the 
rude workshops of the craftsmen-monks. 

Frere Placide died in the bitterness of his 
soul when his masterpiece was broken up, but 
may we not believe that the Abbey is haunted 
by a happy ghost who at last "sees of the 
travail of his soul, and is satisfied." 

It must not be imagined that, because 
Cluny was so largely a prime mover in the 
arts and crafts, she held no scholastic or 
literary rank. While the Benedictines of 
Saint Maur were pre-eminent as historians, 
and the Abbey of Saint Martin of Tours has 
a wider reputation for the artistry of its il- 
luminations, at the end of the eleventh cent- 
ury Cluny had become the "capital of the 
intellectual life of all Europe." Three of her 
monks became popes. Urban II., Pascal II., 
and in 1049 she sent to Rome him whom his 
enemies nicknamed Hildebrand (the brand 
of hell), who, at first superior only of the 



Z1^ French Abbeys 

Monastery of St. Paul without the Gates, was to 
become Pope Gregory VII., the most fearless, 
zealous, and most masterful ruler who ever sat 
in Saint Peter's chair. It was his ambition, 
in great part realised, to make the Catholic 
Church the mistress of the nations, even as 
Cluny was queen of her dependent priories. 

Besides its immense Abbey, Cluny pos- 
sessed a college for her scholars near the 
Sorbonne at Paris, where they could arm 
themselves with the new methods of phil- 
osophy taught by Abelard, a college also at 
Dole, and one at Avignon which connected 
the Abbey intimately with the papal court. 

We may come very closely into touch with 
the schoolmen of Cluny through a most for- 
tunate theft, which preserved from destruc- 
tion a large portion of her library. At the 
time of the Revolution an historical com- 
mission was created, charged with the task 
of selecting from the archives of all monas- 
teries whatever matter might be of interest 
to French history, and some eight hundred 
MSS. were transferred to the Bibliotheque 
National at Paris. (See Note B.) 

In the Abbacy of Peter the Venerable {\\22- 
II 58), Cluny reached its high-water mark. 
She had achieved power and distinction. The 



Abbey Pilgrimages 377 

Abbot Pons, immediately preceding Peter, 
carried the sacred spear at the head of the 
Christian army and put to rout the Saracens 
at Ybelin, so saving Palestine. Saint Denis 
was the only Abbey in France that could com- 
pare with her in honour, for the King of France 
himself did feudal service at Saint Denis, 
from which he acknowledged to hold Vexin 
as a fief, but Saint Denis was ranked after 
Cluny, whose Abbot disputed with that of 
Monte Cassino in Italy the title of Abbot of 
Abbots. 

Affairs of great political moment were re- 
ferred to the arbitration of Peter the Vener- 
able, notably the treaty between Aragon and 
Castile which restored peace to Spain and left 
it free later to combat the Mohammedans. 

It was, however, the personal character of 
Peter which conferred honour upon Cluny 
and not his position which dignified the 
man. 

Closely allied with him we encounter at this 
period two other equally remarkable Abbots 
and schoolmen, Saint Bernard and Abelard, 
who were to be epoch making in the history 
of the Church and the nation. 

Peter could comprehend the widely differ- 
ent points of view of his friends better than 



378 French Abbeys 

they could understand him, and while they 
loved him they could neither love nor under- 
stand each other. Bernard was a mystic as 
bigoted as he was sincere, and Abelard a 
radical and an agnostic. Peter possessed the 
rarest, because the broadest, mind; fervently 
devout and orthodox, he exhaled a sweet 
Christian benignity. "The rule of Bene- 
dict," he wrote Bernard, "is always subor- 
dinate to the law of charity." 

But Bernard could not agree with him, and 
it was due to his relentless animosity that the 
Council of Sens declared Abelard a heretic. 

Peter the Venerable must have believed 
that Abelard's views were strangely warped, 
btit he respected him as honest, and when 
trouble fell upon him dared to open the doors 
of Cluny to him as an asylum. 

The student who would follow Abelard's 
footsteps from the beginning to the end of 
his checkered career will seek for his first 
traces in Brittany in the remains of the cele- 
brated Abbey of Saint Gildas de Rhuys. 

"In the diocese of Vannes 
On the grey rocks of Morbihan 
The very sea-shore where 
In his great despair 
Abbot Abelard walked to and fro. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 379 

Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 

As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 

Who with jovial din 

Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin." 

The region in midsummer will well repay a 
visit, for on the 26th of July at the neighbour- 
ing Saint e Anne d'Auray is held the most in- 
teresting of the "Pardons," a festival half 
religious pilgrimage and half popular f^te, 
which attracts the Brittany peasantry in all 
the glory of their holiday costumes. 

The old Castle of Sucinio, with whose lord 
Abelard was embroiled, still gives a vivid 
picture of feudal times; but with the excep- 
tion of its chapel, which is now the parish 
church, there is scarcely a trace of the monas- 
tery of which Longfellow wrote. 

There is still less to remind one of Abelard 
at Paraclete, the Abbey built for him by his 
students, and which he later gave to Heloise 
as a retreat for the community of nuns of 
whom she was the adored Abbess. 

But it is here at Cluny, walking in the 
still beautiful garden of the friendly Abbot, 
that we have the clearest vision of that 
storm-tossed man. It was here that he must 
have written for her the touching hymn, At 



380 French Abbeys 

Vespers. Its internal evidence, not alone the 
reference to Bernard of Cluny's Jerusalem, 
but the weariness, the disappointment, suffer- 
ing, and repentance, all calmed at last in per- 
fect peace, could have found its experience in 
no other place.' 

When, a little later (April 21, 1 142), Abelard 
died, Peter the Venerable, loyal to the last, 
wrote to Heloise : ' ' Thus the man who by his 
singular authority in science was known to 
nearly all the world and was illustrious 
wherever he was known, learned in the school 
of Christ to remain meek and lowly and, as it 
is but right to believe, he has returned to 
Him." The good Abbot of Cluny did even 
more' than this, for he personally conveyed 
the body of his friend to Paraclete to the 

I AT VESPERS 

(One of ninety-three hymns written by Abelard for the 
use of Heloise and her nuns.) 

Oh, what shall be, oh, when shall be, that holy Sabbath day, 
Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway, 
When rest is found for weary limbs, when labour hath reward, 
When everything for evermore is joyful in the Lord? 

Then, there secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing 
The songs of Zion hindered here by days of suffering. 
And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess 
That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst 
bless. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 381 

guardianship of Heloise, comforting her in 
touching letters with his confidence in their 
future reunion. 

Saint Bernard in his contest with Abelard 
and in his harsh judgment of Peter the Vener- 
able, shows the unlovely side of his nature, 
and yet his intolerance was perfectly in accord 
with the simplicity and singleness of his faith. 
He was a man of many contrasts, personally 
all gentleness and humility, but when he be- 
lieved himself the mouth-piece of God he 
lashed hypocrites even when his superiors. 
So he once reminded the Pope that the dig- 
nity with which he was clothed did not hinder 
him from being in himself naked, poor, and 
miserable, made for labour and not for 
honours, and that a pope without wisdom 
gains no more respect from the elevation of 
his position than a gibbering ape upon a roof. 
When Suger, Abbot of Saint Denis, neglected 
his Abbey to become Prime Minister, and en- 
tertained the King and his Court at Saint 
Denis, he reproached him with making his 
Abbey ' ' a caserne of Satan and a barracks of 
thieves," and he condemned the Clunists for 
attempting to consecrate art to the service of 
God. "The walls of your churches," he 
wrote, "are resplendent while your poor lack 



382 French Abbeys 

sustenance. The Church gilds her stones and 
leaves her children naked. With the silver 
of the miserable she charms the admiration of 
the rich." 

The Abbey of Citeaux itself, founded as 
a reform and a protest against the luxury 
of Cluny, seemed to Bernard worldly in 
its ambitions, and he retired to the priory 
of Clairvaux, where he instituted a sterner 
rule. 

His cherished plans perished. The crusade 
which we will find him preaching at Vezelay 
was a mistake; even his convent of Clair- 
A^aux after his death became wealthy and cor- 
rupt, the Church for whose supremacy he 
had laboured submitted to the monarchy, 
heresy, whose seeds in Abelard's philosophy 
he thought he had blotted out, sprang up a 
fruitful crop all over France. 

"What, then," asks an eminent writer,^ "was the 
work of Bernard? The futile opposition of a man of 
genius to the currents of his centun^ perhaps a re- 
tarding force in the normal development of the age 
. . . he has nevertheless left to the world the ex- 
ample of an energy and a virtue which surpassed 
humanit}'." 

^Achille Lachaise in the Revue Historique, 1899. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 383 

V 

THE ABBEY OF VEZELAY 

Well worthy a visit, apart from any his- 
torical interest, is the Citadel - Abbey of 
Vezelay. 

True, it lies some twelve miles from the 
nearest railroad station (and from the only 
endurable hostelry, Avallon), but this will 
give excuse for a driving tour through the 
Morvan, a northern spur of the Cevennes, and 
one of the most picturesque regions in eastern 
France. 

There is, moreover, a peculiar fitness in 
visiting and studying this monastery in con- 
nection with Cluny, for the development of 
the domination of the great Abbey which we 
have considered is best traced in the history 
of her dependencies, and in none more 
typically than in that of the Abbey of Veze- 
lay. It gives us also one of the most dramatic 
episodes in the history of Saint Bernard, 
showing him to us at the very culminating 
point of his popularity, when he must have 
felt that he had achieved a triumph worthy 
of his life of sacrifice. 

It was not until the year 1096 that this 
Abbey submitted to the spiritual rule of 



384 French Abbeys 

Cluny and accepted Artaud, a Cltinisian, as 
its Abbot. In doing so it converted a power- 
ful rival into an ally; and Vezelay had need 
of assistance in holding its own against two 
adversaries of a more mercenary character 
than the great Order which sought only the 
prestige of becoming its maison-mere. The 
Bishop of Autun and the Comte de Nevers 
both claimed seigneurial rights over the Abbey 
under the feudal system, claims which were 
enforced by the Count of Nevers by forays 
upon the estates of the Abbey; for Vezelay 
had prospered and was rich in this world's 
goods. An earlier Abbot had discovered (in- 
vented, says the chronicle) the relics of Saint 
Mary Magdalen, and pilgrims flocked from 
every quarter to venerate them. The towns- 
people outside the Abbey walls drove a thriv- 
ing trade as innkeepers in providing for their 
entertainment. Travelling merchants had 
followed the pilgrims and had found such a 
good mart for their wares that they estab- 
lished themselves as citizens in the town, 
which took upon itself the aspect of a fair. A 
market was thus formed for the products 
of the region and as the . townspeople and 
the monks became opulent the greed of the 
Bishop of Autun and the Count of Nevers to 




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Abbey Pilgrimages 385 

collect their taxes and tithes became more 
rapacious. But Abbot Artaud was a mian 
of fearless courage, challenging them to at- 
tack an Abbey of the powerful order of Cluny. 
He not only held his own against foes without, 
but he beautified the Abbey within, building 
the magnificent Church of the Madeleine in 
the style of the Burgundian Romanesque 
which his brother Clunisians had adopted.' 

The domineering Abbot was to pay dearly 
for his love of building. To defray the cost 
he imposed taxes on the townspeople, which 
so infuriated them that they assassinated 
him before the altar of the new church. 

But a more ambitious and abler Abbot than 
Artaud presently took his seat, in the person 
of Ponce de Montboissier, who, though own 
brother of Peter the Venerable, defended the 
independence of Vezelay against all con- 
testants, including Cluny itself. He lived to 
see the Count of Nevers annihilated, the 
Bishop of Autun humiliated, the turbulent 

• It was a successor of Abbot Artaud who built the ogival 
choir and transept and who introduced the five elaborate 
Gothic windows with trefoil arches over the portal, so richly 
ornamented with statues in canopied niches. The illustra- 
tion from a drawing before the restoration by VioUet le Due, 
plainly shows the introduction of this group of later windows 
into the facade of the original Romanesque edifice. 

25 



386 French Abbeys 

commune pacified, and his own Alma Mater, 
Cluny, bereft of her spiritual child. 

For after the rule of Peter the Venerable the 
great mother Abbey entered upon the days of 
her decadence. Wealth had brought ener- 
vation, and the truly religious both within and 
without her domination were eager for reform. 

The Abbot Ponce de Montboissier was not 
only daring but astute; he could discern the 
tendency of the time, and though he was not 
himself a religious enthusiast he knew how to 
make such enthusiasm serve his ends. A 
great popular movement was stirring France. 
The cry rang through Christendom, "Protect 
the holy city from the infidel." The King 
of France, Louis VII., had sins upon his con- 
science for which he was sincerely repentant, 
but his chief councillor, Suger, opposed a cru- 
sade. For once the astute Abbot of vSaint 
Denis overreached himself: his cold worldly 
wisdom arguing the inadvisability of the 
crusade fell upon ears stirred by the more 
potent reasoning of Bernard: "What shall it 
profit a man if he gain the whole world and 
lose his own soul? " 

The Abbot Ponce saw his opportunity and 
offered Vezelay as the rendezvous for more 
complete discussion of the subject. The 




CHURCH OF LA MADELEINE, ABBEY OF VEZELAY. 
From Villes du Departement de /' Yonne^ by Victor Petit. 




CHURCH OF THE ABBEY OF LA CHAISE DIEU. 
By permission of Neurdein Freres. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 387 

townspeople were delighted at this stroke of 
diplomacy. It meant for them much that 
an international exposition does for a city in 
our own time — a fictitious impulse to all its 
industries and much gainful pillage of the 
great convocation of pilgrims. It meant also 
entertainment, excitement, the pageant of 
chivalry and royalty, miracle plays and 
thrilling of pulses under sensational preaching 
for the devout, and clandestine amusements 
of a questionable character for the un- 
godly. For months beforehand the country 
round poured its stores of food and drink and 
forage into Vezelay. There never was a 
more popular Abbot than Ponce de Mont- 
boissier, and his praise was in the mouths of 
the very communards who had howled for 
the death of Artaud, for to Vezelay on the 
following summer came the King and Queen 
with their Court, with prelates and knights 
and an innumerable multitude of lesser folk. 
Hither, too, the Abbot had induced Bernard 
to come to address the vast assembly from a 
pavilion pitched on the plain outside the walls. 
The saint gave free rein to his impassioned 
eloquence. The beautiful Queen Eleanor of 
Aquitaine sat beside him, "but," says the 
chronicle, "no one noticed her." 



388 French Abbeys 

Wild enthusiasm greeted the words with 
which he closed his long harangue : 

"Christian warriors, He who gave His life for you 
to-day demandeth yours; illustrious knights, noble de- 
fenders of the Cross, call to mind the example of your 
fathers who conquered Jerusalem, and whose names 
are written in heaven ! The living God hath charged 
me to tell you that He will punish those who will not 
defend Him against His enemies. Fly to arms, and let 
Christendom re-echo with the words of the prophet — 
Woe to him who dyeth not his sword with blood! " 

Shouts of ' ' God wills it ! " rent the air. The 
King, kneeling, received the cross, and the re- 
luctant Abbot Suger, whose practical mind 
foresaw that the crusade must be a failure, 
was left to carry on the government of France 
in the absence of its sovereign. 

Abbot Ponce, as shrewd as Suger, knew 
that crusading could bring him only hardship 
and danger and prudently remained in his 
comfortable Abbey. His deep-laid schemes 
had prospered. Vezelay, rich and illustrious, 
now stood clear from all domination but his 
own, and even the truculent Count of Nevers 
had been so smitten to the heart by the 
preaching of Bernard that, confessing himself 
unworthy to fight for the Holy Sepulchre, he 
had renounced his great estates and taken 
upon himself the vows of a simple monk. 



Abbey Pilgrimages 389 

What other designs were floating in his 
ambitious brain we know not, for suddenly, 
in the midst of his triumphs, the great bell 
of the Madeleine tolled for the most arrogant 
of the Lord-Abbots of Vezelay — the high and 
mighty seigneur, Ponce de Montboissier. 

The prestige of the hospitality extended to 
all France with so munificent a hand made 
Vezelay the rendezvous a half -century later 
for Richard Coeur de Lion and Philippe 
Auguste, as with their armies they set out 
upon another and equally disastrous crusade. 

This was Vezelay 's last great day. From 
this time she steadily declined in importance, 
and in 13 10 the Abbot appealed to Philippe 
le Bel to protect the Abbey from the en- 
croachments of her neighbours. The desired 
protection was granted, but at the expense 
of the autonomy of the Abbey so earnestly 
fought for by the Abbot Ponce. From 
that time Vezelay, as a dependency of the 
royal demesne, gained security but entered 
upon the period of the abbes commendataires 
so destructive to monastic institutions. 

There are, however, interesting episodes in 
its history after this, as the career of the 
fighting Abbot Hughes de Maisonconte dur- 
ing the English invasion. 



39° French Abbeys 

The impregnable, encircling walls and mas- 
sive sentinel towers guarded town and Abbey 
inviolate through all this stormy century and 
later in the religious wars, when (as related 
in the story of The Golden Mystery), under 
the Abbot Odet de Coligny the Abbey of 
Vezelay was a Huguenot citadel. 

A citadel it is to-day even in its ruin, and 
the conviction comes home in the very Church 
of the Madeleine that it is because Vezelay 
was a fortress that this noble church has sur- 
vived its more magnificent mother, Cluny. 

The supremacy of Cluny dwindled in the 
twelfth century, as the sterner Cistercians 
rose to preponderance, but of the powerful Ab- 
bey of Citeaux and Bernard's famous Clair- 
vaux little remains to attract the traveller. 

"The history of mediaeval monasticism," says Pro- 
fessor Emerton, "is the history of a series of great 
revivals. The singular thing is that when the mon- 
asteries had got into a bad way it never occurred to 
those most interested that the fault might be in the 
monastic principle itself, but they invariably con- 
cluded that this principle had not been carried out 
thoroughly enough." 

The order of the Carthusians was also a 
protest against the luxury of the Benedictines, 
while the Franciscans and Dominicans arose 



Abbey Pilgrimages 391 

as reformers of the relaxed rule of the Cis- 
tercians, and later the Feuillants, the nuns of 
Port Royal, and the monks of La Trappe, 
with the earlier Jesuits, practised most con- 
scientiously the severest rigours which hu- 
manity could endure. 

It is our business "not to criticise but, 
what is far more difficult, to understand." 

The best thought, the most fervent aspira- 
tion, the most loving charity, was for cent- 
uries enshrined in the Abbeys, and though 
France has repudiated them the world, in 
spite of their mistakes, must look back upon 
their work with admiration and gratitude. 

The poet Gresset, in leaving the monastic 
life, thus voices the sentiments of modernity: 

" Adieux aux Jesuites a M. l'Abbe Marguet. 

*'. . . Ne pour I'mdependance 
Devois je plus long temps souffrir la violence, 
D'une lente captivite? 

Mais ami, t'avouerai-je un tendre sentiment 
Que ton coeur genereux reconnoitra sans peine? 
Oui, meme en la brisant, j'ai regrette ma chaine! 

Oui, j'ai vu des mortels, j'en dois ici I'aveu, 
Trop combattus, connus trop peu; 
J'ai vu des esprits vrais, des coeurs incorruptibles 
Voues a la patrie, a leurs rois, a leur Dieu, 



192 



French Abbeys 



A leurs propres maux insensibles, 

Prodigues de leurs jours, tendres, parfaits amis, 

Et souvent bienfaiteurs paisibles 

De leurs plus fougueux ennemis ; 

Trop estimes en fin pour etre moins hais. 

Que d'autres s'exhalant dans leur haine insensee, 

En reproches injurieux, 

Cherchent en les quittant a les rendre odieux, 

Pour moi, fidele au vrai, fidele a ma pensee, 

C'est ainsi qu'en partant je leurs fais mes adieux! " 




I 



APPENDIX 

NOTE A (CHAPTER 111) 

Another sermon to the birds is given in "The Life 
of Saint Francis of Assisi" from the Legende Santa 
Francisci of Saint Bonaventure, by Miss Lockhart: 

"And as he was going his way he beheld some trees 
whereon sat birds well-nigh without number, whereat 
Saint Francis marvelled and said to his companions, 
Ye shall wait for me here upon the way and I will 
preach unto my little sisters the birds . . . and 
he said: Much bounden are ye, my little sisters, unto 
God your Creator. Ye sow not, neither do ye reap, 
and God feedeth you and giveth you the streams 
and fountains for your drink and the high trees 
whereon to make your nests. And because ye know 
not how to spin or sew, God clotheth you. Where- 
fore your Creator loveth you much, and therefore, 
my little sisters, beware of the sin of ingratitude, and 
study always to give praises unto God." 

NOTE B (CHAPTER III) 

" What 's his disease ? 
A very pestilent disease, my lord, 
They call lycanthropia. 

Those that are possessed therewith imagine 
Themselves to be transformed into wolves, 

393 



394 French Abbeys 

Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night 
And dig dead bodies up, as two nights since 
One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane 
Behind Saint Mark's Church, with the leg of a man 
Upon his shoulder ; and he howled fearfully. 
Said he was a wolf, only the difference 
Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside. 
His on the inside." 

NOTE C (CHAPTER III) 

John Addington Symonds says of the lords of 
Baux: 

"The stern and barren rock from which they 
sprang and the comet of their scutcheon are the true 
symbols of their nature. History records no end of 
their ravages and slaughters. It is a tedious cata- 
logue of blood: how one prince put to fire and 
sword the whole town of Courthezon; how another 
was stabbed in prison by his wife; how a third be- 
sieged the castle of his niece, and sought to under- 
mine her chamber, knowing her the while to be in 
childbed; how a fourth was flayed alive outside the 
walls of Avignon. 

"There is nothing terrible, splendid, and savage be- 
longing to feudal history of which an example may 
not be found in the Annals of Les Baux, as narrated 
by their chronicler, Jules Canouge." 

The heraldic symbol of the comet and their battle- 
cry, "Au hasard Balthazar," are explained when we 
remember that the name Bauz is derived from Bal- 
thazar, which, again, is the Greek equivalent for 



Appendix 395 

Belshazzar; and the lords of Baux were as proud to 
believe themselves descended from the son of Ne- 
buchadnezzar of Babylon as from the Balthazar who 
was one of the three kings who saw the star in the 
east, and followed it, bringing gifts to the new-born 
Christ. 

Vidal has not been traduced in this story. He 
says of himself in what has been rightly called the 
^' chef d'oeuvre de la gasconade'' : 

"In boldness I am as good as Roland and Olivier. 
Messengers come to me with rings of gold and such 
love letters that my heart rejoices. In all things I 
show myself a knight. I know the whole business 
of love and all that pertains to gallantry, for you 
never saw one so charming in a lady's chamber nor 
one so proud and so mighty in arms, for which 
reason even such as do not see me are afraid of me." 

(See The Troubadours at Home, by Professor Jus- 
tin H. Smith, chapter xviii. and notes.) 

NOTE A (CHAPTER V) 

There is no hunt so interesting, because none so 
elusive, as the hunt for a particular story which has 
half revealed itself in some old document and then 
incontinently taken to the woods. For years I had 
been intrigued by this beautiful series of tapestries. 
At each return to the Cluny Museum the Lady of the 
Unicorn attracted and mystified me. Experts could 
only hazard the opinion that it was from the Aubusson 
manufactory with a guess at the date, and it was re- 
served for a writer of fiction to put me on the track 
of the facts. 



39^ French Abbeys 

Wandering one summer through George Sand's 
enchanting country of Berry and Marche, and using 
her books as our guide, we came upon Bourganeuf, 
with its commandery of Knights Hospitallers and 
its legend of Aubusson and Zizim. Close at hand was 
the manufactory of Aubusson and, forming a triangle 
with these points, the old castle of Boussac. Some- 
where in this region we felt the mysterious lady must 
have lived and have known both the Commander 
of the Hospitallers and his romantic prisoner, and 
suddenly George Sand, in her Promenades autour 
d'un Village, opened the door of the castle and 
showed us the tapestries as she saw them in 1857: 

"It is to be wished," she wrote, "that the admin- 
istration of Fine Arts would cause copies to be made. 
I says copies, because the same entourage is required 
for the feudal chateau and the effigy of its beautiful 
chatelaine which is there in its natural frame." 

Madame Sand's description was a complete iden- 
tification of the Cluny tapestries, the quarry whose 
trail I had so long sought: 

"It is the entire life of a Merveilleuse of that time. 
The chic in the cut of the garments, the brilliancy of 
the agrafes of precious stones, and the transparency 
of the gauze is rendered with a facility which time 
has not destroyed. In many of the panels a young 
girl dressed more simply is represented at the lady's 
side offering her flowers or jewels, and elsewhere 
her favourite bird. ... A white unicorn and a 
lion hold lances with pennons. And here is what 
demands a commentary — the crescent is sown in pro- 
fusion on the standards and the lance shafts." 



Appendix 397 

Madame Sand then quotes the conclusions of her 
friend, Monsieur de la Touche, who in turn gives his 
authorities, and after this rousing of the game, with 
such chroniclers as Philippe de Commines and the 
Jesuit Rocoles in full cry, it was not difficult to run 
it to earth in the legend of the "Blonde Agnes." 

NOTE A (CHAPTER VI) 

A Catholic historian, Puy Laurens, gives this ac- 
count of the deed: 

"The Count Simon, having thus taken the castle, 
caused the above-named Aimeri, a notable noble- 
man, to be hanged upon a gibbet; also a small num- 
ber of knights. The other nobles, to the number of 
about eighty, were put to the sword, and lastly, 
some three hundred heretics, burned in this world, 
were thus given over by him to eternal fire; and 
Guirande, the lady of the chateau, cast into a well, 
was there crushed with stones." 

NOTE B (CHAPTER VI) 

For the unvarnished historical facts from which 
this story is drawn, see Bernard Delicieux et r In- 
quisition Albigeoise, by B. Haureau, Membre de 
rinstitut. 

NOTE A (CHAPTER VII) 

Gresset describes the linguistic accomplishments 
acquired by Ver Vert during his voyage down the 
Loire in the following terms : 

"II entonna tous les horribles mots 
Qu'il avait su rapporter des bateaux. 



39^ French Abbeys 

Jurant, sacrant d'une voix dissolue 

Faisant passer tout I'enfer en revue. 

'Jour de Dieu! Mor! Mille pipes de diables!' 

Toute la grille a ces mots effroyables, 

Tremble d'horreur; les nonnettes sans voix 

Font en fuyant mille signes de croix." 

The poem entitled Le Triomphe de VAmant Vert 
was written for Marguerite and has long been the 
puzzle of critics. Grave discussion as to who this 
"Green Lover" may have been, (who is said to have 
died of grief and to have sought his lady through the 
realms of Hades,) has from time to time occupied the 
pens of savants. One believed that the author of 
the poem, Jean Lemaire, meant thus to designate 
himself, and our critic marvels that the poet could 
have had the audacity to imagine that such public 
declaration of his love would be pleasing to the 
Duchess of Savoy. 

And yet the meaning is sufficiently apparent. 
The "Green Lover" boasts his facility in language, 
in spite of his birth in Ethiopia, and laments that he 
could not change his clothing to black when his 
mistress was in mourning. 

"Plut a Dieu que mon corps assez beau 
Fut transforme pour cette heure en corbeau, 
Et mon collier vermeil et pourpurin, 
Fut aussi brun qu'un Maure ou Barbarin 
Lors te plairais je, et ma triste laideur 
Me vaudrait mieux que ma belle verdeur." 

It is even possible that the princes of the house of 
Savoy regarded the parrot as a mascot, for, oddly 



Appendix 399 

enough, in the preceding century the only gift which 
Count Amadeus VI., returning from an unsuccessful 
crusade, brought his wife was a parrot. (See The 
Romance of the House of Savoy, by Althea Wiel, vol. 
i., p. 220.) 

NOTE A (CHAPTER XV) 

A mystery surrounds the death of the Duchess of 
Montbazon. The explanation ordinarily given is 
that the Duchess died suddenly from a malignant 
fever; that for some reason, either because the cofhn 
was too short or from a supposed necessity of their 
ghoulish craft, the embalmers severed her head from 
her body and laid it in the dish in the boudoir while 
continuing their task in the adjoining chamber. 

This story is most improbable. Had her husband 
survived her the dealings of the De Rohans in the 
past with their unfaithful wives would rouse a sus- 
picion as to the manner of her taking-off. But the 
Duke of Beaufort was also violent and brutal enough 
to have killed her in a moment of jealousy. 

He was the proprietor, as we know, of the neigh- 
bouring chateau of Chenonceaux, where he had 
hidden from Mazarin. If the belief of the fishwives 
of the Halles that he was living at this time was true 
another solution to the problem is imaginable. 

Of the Abbe de Ranee after his conversion we have 
the most authentic and precise information, both 
from his own writings and those of his contemporaries. 

Saint Simon wrote in his memoirs: "Monsieur de 
la Trappe had for me a charm which attached me to 
him, and the holiness of the place enchanted me. I 
returned to it every year for weeks at a time." 



400 French Abbeys 

On one occasion the Duke took the painter Rigaud 
with him, who executed a portrait of Ranee from 
memory. 

A tradition lingers in the neighbourhood of La 
Trappe to the effect that the Abbot who succeeded 
Ranee showed to visitors a reliquary containing a 
skull which he assured them was that of the Duchess 
of Montbazon, and Chateaubriand in his Life of the 
Abbe, concludes: "It is not improbable that Ranee 
obtained the relic which he adored." 

(See also, Les Veritables Motifs de la Conver- 
sion de I'Ahbe de La Trappe, M. Laroque, Cologne, 
MDCLXXXV. 

NOTE B (CHAPTER XV) 

Besides the charters and deeds of Burgundy, the 
Abbey possessed hundreds of manuscripts, nearly all 
the work of its own monks. While they are princi- 
pally theological, the collection also comprises two 
curious treatises on medicine by Averroes and an 
anonymous monk of Monte Cassino; an essay by 
Boccaccio, "Concerning Mountains, Fountains, and 
Rivers," and a treatise on physics as taught at 
Cluny by Dom Gand. There are also works on law 
and some transcriptions of the classics. The initial 
letters and illuminated borders of the missals and 
other books executed by monks of the middle ages, 
now preserved in the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris, 
show how artistic and beautiful was the work of the 
masters of this art. The books are many of them 
bound in repoussee gold and silver set with gems and 



Appendix 401 

relics, or in panels of ivory exquisitely traced, 6r in 
velvet embroidered with gold thread and pearls. 

These gems of art were executed in unheated and 
in poorly lighted scriptoria. The transcriber of 
Saint Jerome's Commentary says: "While I wrote 
I froze, and what I was not able to finish during the 
day was ended by moonlight. (Dum scrip sit frigiiit, 
et quod cum lumine solis scribere non posuit perfecit 
lumine noctis.)" 

Only a few names of artists have come down to 
us. Jean Bourdichon is high upon the list as the 
illuminator of the Livre d'Heures of Anne de Bre- 
tagne, so remarkable for its botanical and entomo- 
logical accuracy. (See reproduction in colour.) 

Good King Rene is famed as an illuminator, and 
the Abbeys of Montmajour, Saint Martial, and Saint 
Denis are eminent in this exquisite art. 

Beautiful examples of Jean Foucquet's admired 
work may be seen in the collection of the late Due 
d'Aumale at Chantilly; but no French illuminators 
were so revered as the Frati Jacopo and Silvestro, 
whose right hands are preserved as sacred relics at the 
Abbey of Camaldoli. 

The three favourite illuminators of that great 
patron of art, the Due de Berry, were Adrien Beau- 
neveu, Jacquemart de Hendin, and Pierre de Lem- 
burg. Two reproductions from MSS. executed for 
the Due de Berry (in the fourteenth century) are 
used as tail -pieces in this volume. The figures with 
clasped hands (page 392) are the duke and his bride, 
Jeanne de Boulogne. The ivy vine is a character- 
istic motive of this period. 

26 



402 French Abbeys 

Attention may be drawn in this connection to the 
symbolism in the head-pieces so carefully studied 
from mediaeval sources by Miss Eleanor Eayres 
Gardner. 

Chapter I. — Trefoil and seven stars, symbols of 
mystery. 

Chapter II. — Copy of original sign of Frere Placide's 
shop, supported by similar scroll-work containing the 
words Requiescat in Pace. 

Chapter III. — Tracery from illumination by monks 
of Montmajour. Butterflies escaping from jaws of 
wolves. Central vignette, cloister and donjon-keep 
of Abbey of Montmajour. 

Chapter IV. — Madonna, symbol of Saint Bernard's 
vision. Three mitres = three bishoprics refused by 
him. Beehive = Abbey of Clairvaux. 

Chapter V. — Chivalric weapons. 

Chapter VI. — Coat-of-arms of Albi, with dripping 
daggers, symbolic of Inquisition. Blackberry vine, 
thorns = tribulation ; fruit = success. 

Chapter VII. — Parrot and mistletoe. 

Chapter VIII. — Church and fieur-de-lys. 

Chapter IX. — Flageolet wreathed in lentil foliage, 
the symbol of Saint Bruno. 

Chapter X. — Crown of thorns ; eglantine. 

Chapter XI. — Dragon. 

Chapter XII. — Bell of Mont Saint Michel. 

Chapter XIII.— Galleon and emblems of Mercury 
= flight; crozier = emblems of an abbot. 

Chapter XIV. — Symbol of sacrifice. Emblems of 
Joan of Arc. 

Chapter XV. — Pilgrim staves and shells. 



Appendix 403 

Our cloister gleaningvS are ended, but by no means 
finished, for no reference has been made to the 
Abbeys of middle and south-western France, and this 
from no lack of material. It is almost unpardon- 
able to pass over Fontevrault, so intimately con- 
nected with the Plantagenets, and Sainte Trinite of 
Vendome with the Bourbons, while the entire Parisian 
group, and especially the vanished Temple, and Saint 
Germain des Pres, so pre-eminent that the French 
refer to it simply as "L'Abbaye," cry shame upon 
our neglect, while the good nuns of Port Royal and 
the naughty ones of Chelles and many another 
nunnery demand "Place aux dames." But fie upon 
our greediness! Shall we leave nothing untouched 
for those who come later? And gentle George Her- 
bert reminds us that 

"The courteous guest 
Will no more talk all than eat all the feast." 

So gentle reader — Vale et henidicite! 



AUTHORITIES 

OTHER THAN THOSE REFERRED TO IN NOTES 

Basquin, Dom Andre, Moine Benedictin L'Abbaye 
de Saint Wandrille. 

La Biographie Universelle. 

Bonhours, P., Vie de Pierre d'Aubusson. 

Chartreux, Un, La Grande Chartreuse. 

Cherest, M. A., Vezelay, Etude Historique. 

Corroyer, Ed., U Architecture Gothique. 

Cucherat, L'Abbe, Cluny au XI""^ Siecle. 

Dupasquier, Louis (Restorer of the Church) U 
Eglise de Brou. 

Fay, R. E., French Painting in the Middle Ages. 

Gaillardin, Les Trappistes, L'Ordre de Citeaux. 

Gaily, M. (Chanoine de Sens, Ancien President de 
la Soceite d'Etudes d'Avallon), Vezelai Monastique. 

Germain Dom Michel, and Mabillon, Monasticon 
Gallicanum, pub. 1645. 

Gonse, Louis, UArt Gothique. 

La Grande Encyclopedie. 

Gresset, Poems. 

Guadet, J., Professeur a I'Ecole des Beaux Arts, 
Elements et Theorie de L' Architecture . tome iii. ; Les 
Edifices Religieux. 

Hare, Augustus, Walks in Southern France. 
405 



4o6 French Abbeys 

Helyot, Histoire des Ordres Religieux. 

Honnecourt, Villard de, Album of Drawings at 
Bibliotheque Nationale. 

Hippeau, M., L'Abbaye de Saint Etienne de Caen. 

Herard, M., Etudes Archeologiques sur les Abbayes 
de VAncien Diocese de Paris. 

Jameson, Mrs., History of the Monastic Orders. 

Lasteyrie, Robert de, et Quicherat, Melanges d' 
Histoire et d'Archeologie. 

Lasteyrie, Ferdinand de, Histoire de la Peinture 
sur Verre. 

Labetti, Alphonse, Les Manuscrits et I'Art de les 
Orner. 

Lama, Charles de, Bibliotheque des Ecrivains de la 
Congregation de Saint Maur. 

Lenormant, Charles, L'Abbaye de Solesmes. 

Lentheric, C, Le Rhone (Les Freres Pontifes). 

La Rousse Encyclopedie. 

Male, Emile, UArt Religieux du XI IL Siecle en 
France. 

Marquessac, Baron H. de, Hospitallers de Saint 
Jean de Jerusalem. 

Michel, Auvergne et Velay. 

Montalembert, Le Comte de, The Monks of the West. 

Normand, Charles, Guide Archeologique de Paris. 

Penjon, A., Professeur a I'Ecole de Cluny, Cluny, 
La Ville et L'Abbaye. 

Petit, Victor, Villes et Campagnes du Departement 
de I'Yonne. 

Por^e, le Chanoine (Ancien Directeur de la Society 
des Antiquaires de Normandie), Historic de I'Abbaye 
du Bee. 



Authorities 407 

Pommeraye, Frangois de, UAbbaye de Saint Ouen. 

Putnam, George Haven, Books and their Makers 
during the Middle Ages. 

Quicherat, Jules, Documents Inedits. 

Ricard, E., Cluny et ses Environs. 

Sabatier, Paul de, Saint Francis of Assisi. 

Sainte-Beuve, Histoire de Port Royal. 

Sommerard, du, Les Arts du Moyen Age. 

Storrs, Richard S., D.D., Bernard of Clairvaux. 

Smith, Professor Justin H., The Troubadours at 
Home. 

Taylor et Nodier, La Normandie Monumental et 
Pittoresque. 

Vertot, I'Abbe de, Histoire des Chevaliers Hos- 
pitaliers de S. Jean de Jerusalem. 

Viollet le Due, "Architecture Monastique," in his 
Dictionnaire d' Architecture . 

Wallon, H. (Secretaire de I'Academie des In- 
scriptions, etc.), Jeanne d'Arc. 



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